


You Suck

by a_taller_tale



Series: Vampire AU [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Animal Transformation, Blood, Character Turned Into Vampire, Humor, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2018-10-27 21:16:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10816914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_taller_tale/pseuds/a_taller_tale
Summary: Walking home from one of Donut's stupid movies one night, Simmons is attacked. Now he has an aversion to garlic and can't stop staring at Grif's neck.





	1. Lost Boys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for blood and violence this chapter. I hope everyone likes vampire tropes as much as I do.

“The world building didn’t make any sense,” Simmons said. It really didn’t. Grif would agree with him if his backup was _here._

“Oh, come on, Simmons. You know you can’t resist a good rom-com!” 

Actually, Simmons usually could resist Donut's tendency to pick romantic comedies when there was at least one more vote, but Grif bailed at the last minute and Tucker was home sick with the flu. Donut checked on Tucker over the phone when they met up, and Simmons could hear him gasp from a foot away "didn’t want to hang out with you fuckers anyway” in between rounds of vomiting. 

Sometimes Tucker sounded a lot like Church. Jerk. No one wanted to hang out with someone with a contagious disease anyway. 

But with no veto, Donut got to pick the movie and Simmons had to sit through Channing Tatum as a mermaid without Grif for company. 

Grif ate all the popcorn, but he was good at picking up on the most ludicrous parts of a movie and sharing sarcastic comments in Simmons’ ear. This would have been a really good one to tear apart. Simmons had so many regrets. 

Grif had been planning on coming, but Kai texted just before they were supposed to go out and asked him to pick her up somewhere. His little sister got into trouble a lot, so it was kind of a regular occurrence that Grif had to drop everything and go, usually at odd hours. But, though he claimed it was a pain in the ass, he always went after her. 

It was past midnight and they were picking their way through the city to get to the subway. The area looked a little sketchy, but there wasn't anything to be afraid of other than the locals asking for money. If they walked really fast maybe Donut wouldn’t start up a conversation with _every random person_ they met. Simmons quickened his pace so Donut would match it. 

Donut was still talking, _god_. “Channing looks really good. A lot of people let themselves go once they start having kids. I bet he’s a _great_ dad.” 

Someone stepped into their path, stopping both of them short. Oh, great. It was a seven foot tall _giant_ in a hoodie and tattered jeans, probably on drugs. At first his face was obscured by his hood, but with a growl that sounded inhuman he tilted his head at them and the hood fell back. 

His head was shaved and his throat had a nasty scar on it like a wild animal had attacked him. His eyes seemed to glow, but Simmons was sure that was a trick of the streetlights. This guy didn’t need any more intimidation factors going for him. 

Simmons instinctively tried to step out of his path and keep walking, but Donut was a country boy and friendly to a dangerous fucking fault. “Ohhhhh! Are you a tourist? Do you need directions, big guy?” 

“Donut!” Simmons hissed. “He’s probably on drugs. He’s just going to ask you for cash. Come on!” 

But despite Simmons almost ripping his sleeve trying to get him to move, Donut stood his ground. “Now we have to be good citizens, Simmons! You were new to the city once too! This guy needs our help! And as a therapist—” 

“You’re not a therapist, Donut. You’re a radio show host!” Along with working with Simmons at the BGC tech help desk, Donut was the Sunday Showtunes Radio DJ, ran karaoke nights around the city, and sold high end skin care products.

“—I feel that I need to help a fellow citizen in need. I’ve only been talking about this for _ages,_ Simmons. _Therapy by Text_ if you need some,” Donut said. “It’s the newest fad and it’s paid freelance.” 

The scary nightmare giant’s head swung to Donut at the last word. With a growling hiss, he gestured toward the alley behind him. 

“Oh look, he wants us to follow him!” 

Simmons stared. Was he _serious?_ “Nope. Let’s go. Time to go.” Simmons grabbed for Donut again, but the fucker skillfully dodged him and followed the sketchy guy. 

Every animal instinct in Simmons’ body told him to run. Donut was pretty resilient. He got into all kinds of situations and always came out fine. 

Stupid Grif. He should _be here._ He’d know what to do. Donut actually listened to Grif sometimes. 

Simmons still hadn’t made a decision, but his feet brought him forward to follow them. 

He was punished for this immediately when the scary guy’s growl deepened and Simmons was _picked up off the ground_ and tossed into a wall like he was nothing. His head hit so hard against the bricks he didn’t know why he hadn’t heard a crack. Simmons went down, stunned. 

“Hey—!” Donut squawked. The man grabbed Donut by the throat next and pressed him against the wall. 

Simmons shook his head, trying to clear the fogginess and leverage himself up. There was no doubt in his mind that this guy could kill them with his bare hands. But why? He wasn’t going for their wallets or phones or anything. 

He was scared shitless, but Donut was in danger. He had to save him or something. Grab him and run before they both got murdered. 

…Or maybe Donut would want Simmons to live. Donut was a pretty good guy. He’d probably forgive Simmons from the afterlife eventually. 

“Hey!” A sharp new voice cut in. 

Simmons perked up. Someone saw, someone was going to help them! _Please be a cop. Please be a cop._ The figure stepped into the light just as Simmons realized he sounded familiar. 

“Oh, thank god. It’s Washington! We’re saved!” Simmons hands shook badly going to his pocket for his phone. 

“Who?” Donut choked, kicking weakly at the guy who had him pinned, but he was built like a tank. They had no chance against him, but with Washington… 

Wash didn’t look great. His eyes were sunken in, with darker circles than he used to have in the mornings fighting Church over the office coffee pot. His clothes looked like they had seen better days too. 

“He worked with us for a while before you came on at BGC. He used to be an MMA fighter or something.” Wash used to hang out with Church's group. They weren’t exactly friends, but Wash would at least help them against this scary guy. Simmons hit the emergency call button. “Hey Wash, we’re getting mugged! You hit him and I’ll call 911.” 

Donut choked exaggeratedly and gave them a thumbs up. 

Wash completely ignored Simmons’ plea for help, going straight for their assailant. But he didn't attack him. When Wash tapped the man on the arm, all Simmons' hope evaporated. “Meta, I know you're hungry, but we need them for information. Hold on.” 

“What the _fuck_?!” Simmons covered his own mouth when Wash whipped back to look at him so fast that he blurred. Wash plucked Simmons' phone away, his face expressionless, but his eyes glowed slightly. Like Meta's. 

“Simmons,” Wash said. “Where is he?” 

“W-where is who?” 

“Church,” Wash said. “I need to find Church.” 

“What are you talking about?!” Simmons was near tears now. “I have no idea where Church is. We haven’t seen him in weeks. Sarge is pissed he hasn’t been to work.” 

“You all broke your promise.” He laughed bitterly. “If you don’t want to tell us, what happens next is on you.” 

Wash and Meta hadn’t shown them any weapons, but that primal fear in Simmons would not leave him alone. Something bad was about to happen. 

“I can find out!” Simmons blurted. He had no idea how, he didn't really care for Church that much, but he didn't really need to. All he needed was to convince them to let him go so he could go straight to the police. 

“Fine." Wash nodded back at Meta, his _partner._ "We only need one of you to do that.” 

The hulking man, Meta, snarled and struck at Donut’s neck with his teeth, a sickening wet noise filling the air as he pulled back, taking a chunk of Donut’s flesh with him. 

“Holy _fuck!”_ Simmons shrieked. 

The monster let out a satisfied hiss and snapped his teeth as Donut screamed before latching back onto the wound, drinking noisily. Wash joined Meta, flashing sharp deadly teeth, and biting the other side of Donut’s neck. 

Simmons was embarrassed at the strangled scream that escaped his own throat, even with the extreme situation. What the fuck was happening? Were these guys on bath salts?! 

Donut’s cries quickly faded to whimpers, and he muttered something about a threesome before going limp in their arms. Donut slumping lifelessly managed to break Simmons' paralysis and he threw himself at the exit to the alley, tripping over his own feet. 

Wash appeared in front of him, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. It dribbled down and Wash thoughtlessly wiped it away with his thumb. “I’m going to ask one more time,” Wash said. 

Meta dropped Donut to the ground. His friend didn't move from where he fell. Holy shit, Donut was _dead_. 

Simmons trembled. “You killed Donut! Why would you do that? _What’s wrong with you!?”_

“Last chance, Simmons.” 

“I’ll tell you anything! What do you _want_?” His voice cracked on the end. 

“Where is Church?” 

“I don’t know,” Simmons choked out. “But—” 

“ _‘But you can find out.’_ ” Something in the way Wash said it, this monster with glowing eyes and Donut’s blood on his face, made Simmons think it must not be a satisfactory answer. 

Simmons only had a few seconds to come to terms with his death. It had to end with a _Splash_ reboot being the last movie he would see on this earth. 

At least… At least Grif wasn’t here. He’d live and he’d be with his sister and he wouldn’t see Simmons begging like a bitch instead of being brave. 

Simmons’ scrabbled at Wash’s shoulders, kicked and fought, but he was too strong. There was a sharp pain at his neck and then Simmons’ life was flowing out of him. 

Thankfully, he passed the fuck out. 


	2. Once Bitten

Simmons was floating. 

He’d gotten one of those Casper mattresses using the discount code from his favorite podcast, but wow it really _was_ like sleeping on a cloud. They weren’t kidding. What a deal. 

Slowly waking, he rolled and reached for his blanket, but only found air. Brow furrowed, he opened one eye and crashed hard, bouncing on his mattress and landing half on the floor. His head hit the headboard so hard he saw stars. “Ow, the back of my head!” 

More awake now, his hand flew to his neck like he was expecting pain, but there was nothing there. Maybe a dull ache, but it could be because he was really thirsty. It really felt like he _dropped_ into the bed. Must’ve been dreaming. 

The room was pitch black since he had the curtains drawn, but after a minute of stubbornly trying to go back to sleep, the creeping fear that it was later than he thought and he’d forgotten to set an alarm got to him. Groping for the phone, he dropped it on the floor. With a sigh of frustration he leaned over to retrieve it, almost falling on his head again. Wow, he was out of it this morning. 

-Afternoon, it turned out. 

It was 12:45pm. 

Simmons was a naturally early riser, even under the most miserable of hangover circumstances. It was shocking he’d slept this late. The other surprising thing was that he had fifteen texts from Grif. 

Grif had a philosophy against calling anyone, and he never answered his phone. He claimed he was ducking bill collectors, which was probably also true, but he could at _least_ answer when Simmons called. Then again, they were usually together. Grif’s texts were typically composed of _what are you making for dinner, coming over,_ and _see you in 5_. 

Simmons had barely unlocked the phone to read them when it started buzzing in his hand. Still disoriented, Simmons shakily pressed the talk button. “Hello?” he croaked. 

“Simmons, where the fuck are you?” There was a frantic quality to Grif’s voice. “If you were going to skip work, you could’ve told me so I didn’t have to be here.” 

“What? It’s Sunday.” 

“It’s Monday, asshole.” 

“What?! What the fuck?” Unless his phone and Grif were somehow wrong, he was late to work. Very late. He’d been in at 8am since he started working at BGC five years ago. It was almost time to start angling for a promotion again. This was terrible! 

“Don’t worry. I covered for you. I said you and Donut probably had a weekend rager and you’re hungover and trying to figure out how to get divorced from the chick you hooked up with in Atlantic City. “ 

“Do you know something? Did Donut show up?” Simmons gulped. They’d been out... And something happened. Bad. But he couldn’t remember what. He probably did want to drink after the merman movie, but what made him sleep a _whole day_? 

“Nah, he’s not answering his phone either. But he fucks off sometimes with no notice. You’re the one who’s never missed a day of work.” 

Simmons whined at the reminder. It turned into a groan as his stomach suddenly turned. He barely made it to the toilet. When he was done he turned the phone on speaker. 

“Dude, gross. You need triage?” 

“I’m fine.” Simmons said. 

“No, you’re not. I need an excuse to get out of here. Mondays suck. I’m picking up pedialyte and telling Sarge you’re dying. See you in twenty minutes.” 

The phone clicked off before Simmons could protest. Grif was a lazy fuck, but taking care of his little sister made him really intense when any one of their friends—coworkers? Forced acquaintances?—was sick. 

Grif had started at BGC on the same day Simmons did. Sarge had spotted Grif being trouble pretty quickly and put Simmons in charge of him. Grif was _the worst_ guy to work with. But he wasn’t terrible to hang out with it. The urge to kill him was down to only a few times a day now. 

The Grifs lived in a rundown apartment on the other side of the city, but Grif hung out at Donut and Simmons’ place a lot more now that his sister was out of school. Their fridge was better stocked and Simmons didn’t like looking at the Grifs’ messes. Whenever he was over there Simmons compulsively cleaned and tried to make them clean too, so it was in both of their best interests that Simmons didn’t see how they were living very often. 

It was also nice to have company now with Grif around all the time. Donut’s part-time jobs and various hobbies meant he kept odd hours and he was still on that ‘new to the big city’ high. So it was usually just Grif and Simmons, gaming or talking or making fun of movies. 

Simmons managed to drag himself through the “morning” routine. It didn’t feel like a normal hangover. He didn't have the usual headache and he felt _sharper_ than usual, just hollow and tired too. 

The floss broke against his canines twice and Simmons got so annoyed he threw the broken floss picks in the garbage and didn’t do as efficient a job as usual on his teeth. It was hard to see in the mirror anyway. The glass blurred his reflection, but when he wiped his hand on the mirror to get a clearer look the glass just smudged. 

Compulsively checking his phone again, he wondered how he had forgotten it was Monday. Not that he didn’t stay out late on work nights, but he was _responsible._ He didn’t usually drink that much when he had to work the next day. 

Instead of getting dressed, he curled up on his bed, turned away from the light peeking through the curtains. Ugh, he was acting like _Grif_. He balled up the pillow against his face and groaned. 

“-Am I interrupting something?” 

Simmons peeked up from his pillow, leveling Grif an unimpressed glare. He shouldn’t have given that asshole a key. 

“Tough room,” Grif said. “You look like shit.” 

He tossed something at Simmons. It hit him in the face, of course, because that's the kind of day he was having even though he hadn't even left his bed yet. “Ow, my face.” 

“I brought the pedialyte. Drink up, lightweight.” 

“Asshole.” Simmons sipped it resentfully. “Did you actually go to work in that grimy t-shirt? The office is supposed to be business casual!” 

“It’s Casual Monday.” 

“That’s not a thing," Simmons said weakly. "Did uh… Did Sarge ask about me?” 

Grif rolled his eyes. He didn’t appreciate Simmons’ efforts to climb the corporate ladder. “No. You and Donut were MIA, Tucker’s dying of plague, and Church fucked off somewhere so we're already short-staffed—” 

_Church._ “Where is Church?” Simmons blurted. 

Grif gave him a weird look. “Why would I know that? And if I knew that, why wouldn’t you know that?” 

“You hang out with Tucker sometimes. I don’t know.” He didn’t even know why he was asking. It just seemed important suddenly. He drank more pedialyte, feeling a little nauseous again. 

“Yeah well, Tucker still doesn’t know anything either. He tried to file a police report, but then Church’s weird fucking family called and said he was fine. It’s all sketchy, but it’s probably something boring. Maybe he’s in rehab for being a dick.” 

“Yeah.” That answer wasn’t good enough. He had to find out more. 

“Anyway, work sucked.” Grif made to pull open the curtain and Simmons made a sound of protest, curling around the pillow more. With a shrug, Grif let it go. “There was no one to transfer the pain in the ass old people to except Sarge or Lopez, and it turns out the old people get mad when someone speaks to them in Spanish first. Is Donut still out? Did he go home with some guy?” 

Simmons grimaced. He _did_ remember Donut getting friendly with a huge guy they met on the street, which was sketchy as fuck. Simmons wanted to go home, but did Donut leave with him? It was all a little foggy… “He called him ‘big guy.’” 

“‘Nuff said. No further details needed.” Grif flopped down next to Simmons on the bed. 

“How’s your sister?” 

“What do you mean? -Oh, Kai’s fine. Some asshole and his friends were giving her trouble, the usual.” 

“She couldn’t handle them herself? That doesn’t seem like her.” Simmons had seen her kick some ass before. He tried to avoid outings with both Grif siblings at all costs. There was way too much action and drama. He’d rather save his energy for the office. 

“Nah, she just needed a getaway car. Didn’t want to call some innocent uber driver into the bloodbath.” That did sound more like Kai. 

Grif frowned at him. “Dude, what’s that on your neck?” 

“Huh?” Simmons hand flew to his neck. “Oh, I don’t know. A bug bit me?” 

Grif pulled Simmons' hand away to examine it. “Dude… that looks like a snake bite.” 

“Oh, shut up.” He hadn’t seen anything in the mirror, but it had been really hard to see anything. He had to clean it later. 

“No, really. You haven’t watched the news yet? The city is full of snakes right now. They’re the new household pests. Like spiders. It probably bit you while you were sleeping.” 

“That’s not true,” Simmons glared at him. “But I _have_ heard there are more bats around than usual this time of year. Real spike in the population. You can see them fluttering around at dusk every day.” 

Grif grin dropped off his face. “Fuck off. Don’t even joke about that.” 

“Don’t joke about snakes!” 

“Oh, I wasn’t joking.” Grif raised an eyebrow at him. “Hm. Sleeping during the day, an aversion to sunlight, and looking like pale warmed-over shit. I know exactly what’s wrong with you.” 

“What?” 

“You caught Tucker’s flu. Admit it, asshole. You lured me here to infect me too." 

"I didn’t ask you to come over. If you're worried about being sick, why are you here?" 

Grif shrugged. "I'm out of food. Do you have any pizza bites?” 

“You’re lucky I went shopping.” Maybe he felt so sick because he hadn’t eaten anything. Some food could sooth the aching in his guts. “If you make them, you have to give me at least half.” 

“A third. It’s a waste if you throw them up.” 

“Deal.” Simmons rubbed at his neck. He did feel a mark there, but cleaning the mirror didn’t help him see it any clearer. 

They spent the rest of the afternoon playing co-op and by the time the sun set, Simmons was feeling a little better, aside from the dull ache in his gut and his mouth. 

The pizza bites didn’t make him sick, but he didn’t feel full either. He finished the pedialyte and a few glasses of water. 

He was so thirsty.


	3. Thirst

Simmons showed up the next day at work at 8:57am, almost an hour off from his usual time. 

It had been harder to get out of bed than the day before, even though Grif left at a reasonable hour. He’d had a bite of everything in his fridge, but he still felt weak and thirsty. Worst case of dry mouth ever. Even with a dose of leftover Nyquil he tossed and turned in bed until almost dawn. 

It was overcast, but it was _so_ bright out when he left the apartment that he had to run back inside to get the first pair of sunglasses he could find. He found some dusty, but non-bedazzled ones in Donut’s room. Everything felt warped and strange once he got outside again, but he wasn’t feverish, and he _had_ to go to work. Missing more than a day was unacceptable. 

There was no one there to see him, as usual, since most people filtered in between 9:15 and 9:30, but it gave Simmons some time to catch up on emails and fill the coffee pot and put his lunch away and—A glimpse of the shining silver frame of a photograph in Church’s old cube caught Simmons’ eye on the way back from the kitchen. 

Nothing had really changed since Church had disappeared. It had been several weeks, but no one had really gone through Church’s work yet. The workstation was filled with haphazard piles of papers and the computer was off. 

Church was the only Human Resources guy they had, and he was terrible. He never followed protocol at all and he hired the worst new people. Simmons suspected the only reason he had the job was because he was related to the company owner somehow, and he was supposed to prove his mettle there. But Church never seemed interested in moving up or out at all in the five years Simmons had been at BGC with him. 

Since he’d been gone, Tucker had taken over a lot of the office management duties like ordering coffee, handling some payroll, and making sure they didn’t run out of paper. 

There wasn’t anything interesting on the desk. The picture was of Church and his ex-girlfriend, Tex. She’d been pretty scary the few times she showed up to pick Church up for dates. She dressed like a biker chick, and she actually had the bike. And probably a lot of knives. 

Simmons looked at a couple of the papers on top. An email was printed out, with _PFL_ in the signature. Director Leonard Church. Confidential. PFL wasn’t their parent company though. They belonged to UNSC, Inc. What was PFL? Another little company under them? But if so, why would Leonard Church, Sr. work there? Simmons had always assumed he was a lot higher up, not working for another tiny offshoot like theirs. 

“What’re you doin’, Simmons?” Simmons jumped about six feet in the air and his sunglasses almost fell off his face. Sarge was standing in the hall watching him, his bushy eyebrow poised in judgement. 

“Sarge! Uh- I was just looking for a document Church would’ve had—Here it is!” He took the email off the top, cursing that he hadn’t been able to get to work earlier. With Sarge here, there wouldn’t be any more time to snoop. 

Sarge was an ex-marine and no one knew his real name, which was just as well since he insisted on being called Sarge and referred to everyone else by their last names. It stuck. Simmons wished he’d develop that aura of command when he ran his own department someday. 

Sarge squinted at him, and Simmons straightened up, realizing the interrogation wasn't over. “Son, why are you wearing sunglasses indoors?” 

“Oh, uh. Eye strain?” 

“Hm,” Sarge grunted, eyeing him over critically. “It’s 9:01. Time to get on the clock.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

At 9:35am, Simmons heard Sarge start up from across the floor. “This lateness is unacceptable, dirt bag! A good employee is always on time for an ass-kicking.” Sounded like Grif was here. 

“I made it before ten, Sarge. Don’t I get points for that?” 

“You get fired!” 

“You can’t fire me when half the staff is out!” 

After the requisite lecture and Grif’s half-assed excuses about a late bus, Simmons glanced up from under his sunglasses. 

Grif was settling into his cube next door and Simmons could see over the half wall he was wearing a wrinkled button down over a t-shirt again, but the collar was flattened on one side. At the angle Simmons was sitting at he could see the tendon in Grif’s neck flex when he swallowed... 

_Oh god._ Simmons whimpered. 

Grif looked over at him curiously. “S’up, nerd? Still sick?” 

“S-Shut up, Grif.” Simmons started typing nonsense garbage into the computer so he didn't have to look at him. _What the hell was that?_

It was a really terrible day productivity-wise. Simmons was usually a single-minded worker but he felt _worse_ than the day before. He couldn’t concentrate on any of the monthly reports or the calls or anything. When he tried to switch the sunglasses for his normal glasses, the screens were way too bright to work on. Actually, _everything_ was too bright, so he wore Donut's sunglasses indoors all day like a dork. 

“Allergies,” he said to anyone who asked. Well, Lopez hadn’t really asked but he was there, so Simmons practiced the answer on him. Donut would have asked if he was here. Donut’s disappearance this time had Simmons a little on edge. But Grif was right, it wasn’t anything to worry about yet. Donut once disappeared for four days with no notice and came back with tales of a traveling bus of showgirls and showboys that needed an extra act while they were in town, and brought them a ton of souvenirs to work that they didn’t want, and he was fine. It was just a feeling. 

Simmons tried to eat a yogurt, and then lunch, but after only two bites he kept putting the food aside in disgust. During his break, he cleaned the kitchen and borrowed the Windex for the bathroom since their mirror was blurry too, to no effect. 

It was the worst day. He was completely restless and he still didn’t know anything about Church. The sudden impulse to find out where he was wouldn't leave Simmons alone. It was important. They needed to find Church. 

There hadn’t really been any unlocked information on what Church was up to on the server, but he had a program running to decrypt Church’s password so he could get into his files remotely. He just had to let it go through the combinations. It could take a while… 

“You look really fucked up,” Grif said when it was almost time to go. 

“Thanks, asshole,” Simmons grumbled, hitting ctrl+s and closing out of the document he’d been trying to work on in frustration. 

“You’ve been spacing out all day. You’re not sick, you’re stressed.” 

“Uh-huh…” He closed out of another doc using only shortcuts, making it into a game since anything he actually had to concentrate on _wasn’t fucking working._

“We should go out.” 

Simmons froze. “—What?” 

“Ever hear of ‘hair of the dog’?” 

“‘The hair of the dog that bit you’? I doubt this is a two day hangover, Grif. I either have Tucker’s flu or I’m allergic to whatever grass or tree pollen is happening outside right now.” 

That would explain the eye strain and the sore throat and the sore gums and the dry mouth. Sinus congestion could cause him to space out, right? He kept spacing out while looking at Grif too, which was awkward. Simmons really wanted to… fix Grif’s collar or something. The asymmetry was really bothering him. 

“ _Hair of the Dog_. It’s a dive bar. We’re having a drink before you become a case of spontaneous human combustion.” 

Simmons protested he wasn’t feeling up for it until Grif said it was the only way he was paying back the $20 he owed Simmons for drinks the last time they went out. That was probably true. 

It wasn't a terrible spot. Cash only, a little sticky, dark, but the drinks were cheap and Simmons felt better than he had under the fluorescents in the office all day. At least until the bar started filling up. Simmons ordered a glass of water with his beer and downed both in a couple of minutes, ordering another. He was so thirsty. 

“Easy, dude.” Grif was looking at him with some concern, but Simmons didn’t want to take it easy. Maybe he wanted to drink. 

As the bar started to fill in with more of the after work crowd, he started feeling even more jittery. There were so many people and his eyes wandered down collar bones and up thighs and he felt cold. Everyone else looked so warm. Grif was talking about something and Simmons couldn’t really pay attention to the words. Grif looked warm too. 

There was a buzz in his ear suddenly, like the atmosphere had changed, like that subtle change in the air pressure right before a storm. There, hunched over the other side of the bar with a whiskey, was Wash. 

It was a weird coincidence to see him here. Wash was hired as a temporary floater at BGC for a while. He wasn’t a terrible guy, but he and Church never got along, and the stint hadn’t lasted long before he'd been transferred somewhere else in the company. Hadn’t been a bad guy or anything, but he always seemed a little off. Dangerous. 

They hadn’t seen him in years. It was even before Simmons became roommates with Donut— 

_Donut._

Every one of Simmons' hairs stood on end, and he swallowed around his swollen throat, eyes zeroed in on Wash’s every movement. “We have to go.” 

“What?” Grif looked at him over his first beer, which he'd only half finished. 

_“We have to go_ ,” Simmons said again urgently. 

“What the fuck, dude? You’re acting really weird.” Grif followed his eye line. “–Is that Wash?” 

“ _Grif._ ” 

“What’s the big deal? You really liked him when he was freelancing for us. ‘Gift for spreadsheets and organization,’ right?” Grif's expression changed, gauging how serious Simmons was. “Okay. We’ll leave.” 

Simmons squeezed his glass hard as Grif settled the check, trying to keep his rising panic under control. He barely noticed it shifting in his grip as Grif peeled off a few singles for the tip, until with an unnatural creak, the glass shattered in his hand. 

With Grif standing so close, shards covered both of them. “What the hell?” Grif clamped a hand over his cheek. 

“Sorry. Sorry!” Simmons gasped at the bartender, tripping over himself to untangle from the bar stool. Simmons’ hazarded a look over at Wash, and his heart stopped beating. Wash’s steely eyes were right on Simmons. 

Fuck! Shit. He saw them! That was bad. That was _so_ bad! Donut. Donut was— 

A hand clamped around his wrist and pulled. Grif was dragging him out, which was good, because Simmons still felt frozen. He half expected Wash to leap over the bar and go after them like some kind of wild animal, but he went back to his drink, taking a long sip. It didn’t feel like a complete dismissal. 

Grif pulled him out a side door. It was chilly and the wind was up and Simmons felt like he could finally _breathe_. He gasped for air like he hadn’t been breathing at all since he saw Wash. 

“Dude, what happened in there?” Grif asked. 

“I—I don’t know. I think—I think Donut and I saw him. Wash. The other night. Donut. He… did something to Donut.” 

“Donut? When?” 

“The other night,” Simmons repeated. They were in an alley, a small flood light by the door lighting up their area. It looked so much like the alley where Donut... “We saw Wash. And there was this other guy…” Simmons trailed off, suddenly aware of a sharp tang in the air. 

"The 'big guy'?" Grif asked. 

“You’re bleeding,” Simmons said, his voice thick even to his own ears. But he couldn’t look away from where Grif was clenching his hand shut, just a drop of blood trailing down from his fist. 

“Uh, _yeah,_ broken glass? I think my beautiful face caught some too.” 

Simmons’ eyes flicked up. It was true. There was a thin line on Grif’s right cheek. The glass must have _flown_ when it shattered. 

“Idiot. Let me see… you might need first aid…” Simmons staggered closer, crowding Grif towards the wall. The alley was deserted. You probably couldn't even see it from the sidewalk. 

“Simmons?” Grif’s voice had an anxious pitch to it. Maybe he _was_ acting weird, but Grif sounding so uncharacteristically uncertain only made Simmons feel… powerful. Instinct drove him to take Grif’s hand in his, careful not to smear the blood. It was so bright. So red. Red had always been his favorite color… 

Locking eyes with Grif, Simmons captured the little red bead with his mouth, trailing his lips back up to the source. The taste spread out on his tongue. This was what he wanted, and he needed more. 

“S-Simmons,” Grif breathed, tense all over but not pulling away. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

That cut on his face had the thinnest line of blood rising to the surface. Simmons leaned in, tracing that line with his tongue. Grif's strained noise made Simmons tingle to his toes. His skin was so warm. 

But it wasn’t enough. He was still thirsty. 

Simmons maneuvered Grif up against the wall effortlessly. His mouth felt heavy. A soft bump-bump-bump noise rose to his awareness and Simmons followed it to Grif’s neck. With a shuddering exhale, he struck like a snake, sliding his teeth into Grif's flesh. 

The rush of hot blood in his mouth felt like a perfect eternity. 

Then Simmons was shoved back so hard his head hit the other wall in an eerie echo of something barely remembered, but coming back to him fast. 

Oh _god_ , Simmons had just _bitten_ Grif like a cannibal from Florida. 

Grif was bleeding from the new wound on his neck and breathing hard, standing defensively, his expression accusatory. 

“Simmons, when did you become a fucking vampire?!” 


	4. My Best Friend is a Vampire

“Simmons,” Grif was clutching at his neck, his voice strained. “How did you become a fucking vampire?” 

Simmons could still taste him on his teeth. “I’m not a vampire! Vampires don’t exist!” 

“You just _bit me_ and _drank my blood_ , Simmons.” 

Okay, he had a point there. 

Simmons whimpered slightly, his eyes going back to the blood leaking through Grif’s fingers. He was still so hungry. He wanted it so bad, he’d lick it off Grif’s fingers. Ugh _gross_. “I—shit I’m a vampire!” 

“No shit. Stop looking at me like that.” Grif dug around in his baggy jeans with a sigh, pulling out a _wooden stake_. “Stay back or whatever.” 

“What the fuck?! You just carry _a stake_ around?” 

Grif shrugged. “Yeah, I mean, I didn’t bring the whole kit because I thought we were just going out drinking, but you gotta have a stake for all occasions.” 

“How—? Wha—?” Somehow his mind got stuck on, “It isn’t even that sharp!” 

“Hey, you don’t know. It doesn’t need to be sharp, I just need the strength to push it through.” 

“Oh _please,_ you don’t have enough upper body strength to throw a dart. You’re going to stab me with a block of wood?” 

“I still might, and I don’t appreciate you acting like you’re the expert here.” 

“And what makes _you_ an expert?” 

“Well, my family has kinda been vampire hunters for like eight generations.” 

“ _What?_ ” 

Grif shrugged. “I fight vampires.” 

“You. Fight.” 

Grif’s eyes narrowed at Simmons’ disbelief. “Yeah, I fight. Vampires, denizens of the undead, nerds like you. Mostly it’s Kai right now though. She’s better at it, and I’ve got the day job, so she just calls me when she needs some back up.” 

“I just—Wha.” Simmons was still having a lot of trouble processing and his best friend was just standing there like him leading this whole other life Simmons didn’t know about was _no big deal._ And he was still holding that stake. Was he going to use it? 

“But that’s not important right now. You weren’t a vampire last week. What the fuck happened?” 

“I… I…” The alley. Simmons licked his lips, somehow drinking Grif’s blood made him feel a lot clearer and he remembered. “Donut and I were walking home after _Splash_ —” 

“Ugh... _Splash_.” 

“I _know_! It was terrible! We were on our way home and this seven foot tall guy showed up and Donut wanted to give him a _city tour_.” 

“Cuz that makes sense.” Grif was still twirling the stake around, but he was way too relaxed. It was so irresponsible! Simmons could just _attack_ him again! 

Bite him again… Press him into the wall, and nuzzle into his neck and— 

“Hey,” Grif said, tightening his grip and gesturing to his face. “Eyes up here.” 

“I didn’t know what to do. He attacked Donut. Then Wash showed up and I thought he was going to help, but… he knew the guy, called him ‘Meta.’” Simmons felt his eyes getting watery. “He asked where Church is and I don’t— I don’t know anything. They bit Donut. They killed him. And then he bit me.” Simmons’ hand went to his own neck, remembering the pain. “—Oh god, Grif. I bit you. Did I turn you into a vampire?” 

Grif gave him a considering look. “No, I’ll be okay. They have to feed you their blood. Wash must have slipped you some.” 

“Gross.” 

Grif rolled his eyes. “Dude, you were just drinking _my blood_. You have no ground to stand on.” 

“It could have had diseases!” 

“Yeah, like vampirism.” 

Simmons blinked. The sore throat, the thirst, the weird thing with the mirrors could arguably be symptoms. ...Along with the craving for _fucking blood_ , but it was hard to wrap his brain around, okay?! “I went out in the sun today…” 

“Better get used to _not_ doing that anymore. You fed. You’re going to be extra pale and pasty from now on.” 

“But… How am I supposed to—? I don’t know how—What—Am I dead?” Simmons started breathing hard, clutching his hands on his knee caps as he bent over, gasping. Was his heart beating? Did he even _need_ to breathe? Vampires were so much cooler on TV. Shouldn’t it make it so he didn’t have panic attacks? 

“Hey, Simmons, hey.” Grif awkwardly patted him on the back. “We’ll figure this out.” 

Simmons swallowed unhappily. “You’re not going to kill me?” 

“What?” Simmons gestured at the stake, which Grif seemed to have forgotten he was holding. “Oh.” He lowered it. “No, I’m not going to kill you. That’s ridiculous. Even if you are on Blue Team now.” 

“Wash was in there. He saw me,” Simmons rasped. “He, he did this on purpose. Why?” 

“We’ll figure it out,” Grif repeated. Suddenly aware of how close Grif was, Simmons eyed where he was still bleeding. His mouth had that heavy feeling again. 

Grif’s worried expression melted back into an unimpressed look. “Vampires only have one thing on their minds. Here, if I’m going to keep you and make sure you’re not going to attack me, you have to eat.” 

Grif offered Simmons his hand, and the cut on his palm. Simmons had the brief thought that he’d rather go back for the neck, but he took Grif’s hand before he changed his mind, trying not to think too hard about how weird this was. It didn’t take much convincing. He was so hungry that the source of the blood didn’t seem to matter. Grif hissed when Simmons bit him to get the blood flowing again. 

When it hit his mouth, Simmons moaned. Every drop made him feel stronger and less like his brain was melting out of his eye sockets. Everything cleared and he wasn’t aching anymore. Everything felt _good._

Simmons leaned into Grif’s hand in his hair, a steady growl rumbling from his chest before he realized Grif was trying to tap him out. 

“And you call me a glutton.” Grif looked a little flushed, and coughed awkwardly as Simmons recovered. “You feel better now?” 

Simmons nodded, licking his lips and self-consciously wiping his mouth, nervous there was still blood on him. “What do I do?” 

Grif sighed like the world was ending. “I guess we gotta figure out why the fuck Wash turned you into a vampire. There’s someone we can see. I hate seeing him outside of business hours, but this is kind of an emergency, I guess.” 

“You _think_?” 

They took the train to an apartment not far from Grif’s own. The door had old stickers and magazine cut outs and printed signs saying “KEEP OUT” and “NO DIRTY VAMPIRES ALLOWED.” 

Simmons had no idea what he was walking into. 

Grif pounded on the door. “Are you sleeping already, old man? Open up! It’s like 10:30!” 

Some familiar cursing and a crash sounded inside. 

Simmons recognized the voice just as the door opened to reveal _“Sarge?!”_


	5. Let the Right One In

“Well, what the hell are you dirtbags doin’ here?” Sarge was wearing a ragged dark brown bathrobe that might have been red originally, but was so grungy it was hard to tell. On his feet were the bright pink bunny slippers that Donut had gotten for the office Yankee Swap last Christmas. He had no idea Sarge kept them. That was kind of touching. 

But only if the fountain pen desk set Simmons had gotten Sarge as a private Christmas gift was prominently displayed somewhere. 

“Simmons got in some trouble with the Blues,” Grif said, covering his neck with his hand. Maybe they should get him some first aid. Maybe Sarge had— 

“Blues!” Sarge’s eyes widened and he reached for the wall to the side of the door and pulled out a _shotgun._

“Oh my god!” Simmons jerked back. 

“Where are they?” he bellowed, marching out onto the balcony as if there was an enemy hiding around every corner. 

“Jeezus,” Grif said. “Sarge, calm down, just let us in and I’ll explain.” 

With a grumble, Sarge marched back into the apartment and Grif followed after. But when Simmons tried to step over the threshold he was hit with a force that knocked the wind out of him. He staggered back with a groan. 

Grif and Sarge both looked startled. 

“Oh, right,” Grif said in realization. “So, this is where I should explain—” 

_“He’s one of them!”_ Sarge cocked the gun and pulled the trigger. On instinct, Simmons moved so fast to the other end of the balcony his hair was still fluttering when he got back to human speed and he nearly fell over. He didn't know he could do that. 

It said something about the neighborhood that no one came out of their apartments when they heard the shot. Sarge cocked it again. “Help me, Grif, you useless—” 

Grif moved into Sarge’s sights and in front of Simmons. “No! Down, Sarge.” 

“Don’t test me, boy," Sarge growled. "I’ve always wanted to shoot you.” 

“He’s fine," Grif insisted. "He’s still Simmons. You saw him at work today. That sketchy temp guy Wash turned him the other night.” 

“Well, he wasn’t a bad temp,” Simmons said. 

Grif looked back at him incredulously. “Dude, are you really defending that guy right now?” 

“I didn’t say he’s a _good guy,_ but he _was_ a good temp. He was the only person who filled out his reports correctly!” 

“Whatever, look,” Grif continued, and Simmons realized Sarge still hadn’t lowered his gun. “Wash wants intel from us. I think he set some kind of compulsion on Simmons when he turned him. And he was watching out for Simmons at the bar tonight. He’ll be back for him if he thinks he’s getting any information. If we keep Simmons, we can get Wash, and maybe lead back to where these new vampires are coming from.” 

Simmons broke from his terror. “Wait, you’re using me as bait?” 

“That’s the plan if you want to be useful. Shut up, Simmons.” 

"Grif!" Sarge yelled, calling the attention back to himself. "You don't keep vampires as pets! You chop off their heads! And burn the bodies! And then spit on their graves!" 

Simmons swallowed, sure his mouth had dropped open in horror. That was really... graphic. 

Grif didn’t move. “He’s the same nerd. He hasn’t even eaten anyone yet.” 

Sarge tutted doubtfully and glared at Grif’s neck. Grif slapped his hand back over it, but the damage was done. “It’s your funeral, dirtbag.” 

Simmons felt guilty, but he didn’t feel like attacking anyone either. He felt totally normal again now. Well, kind of. Apparently he had super speed. But he still felt like _him_. And even when he bit Grif it hadn’t been a _violent_ urge… 

“Come on in then,” Sarge grunted. 

Simmons hesitated, but Grif waved at him to follow them. He admitted a little curiosity about his boss’s house. This time, he didn’t get the wind knocked out of him when he carefully stepped through the doorway. 

It was cluttered for an ex-military man. Lots of old books, and weapons that were well kept, but in precarious places. There was a crossbow above a desk with haphazard piles of papers. Simmons didn’t see his fountain pen set. 

Where a mantle might be, there was a huge white board nailed and duct taped to the wall and drawn on with markers. It depicted a stick figure with fangs and two Xs for eyes, a vampire Simmons guessed. There was another stick figure labeled “Griff” with X’s for eyes and “collateral damage” underlined three times underneath it. The misspelling had to be just to piss Grif off. It _was_ kind of funny. 

Sarge caught Simmons examining it. “That’s the hunting strategy board!” 

“Uh, but sir, Grif dying is part of your strategy?” 

“Of course! A vampire slayer should always be willing to die to protect the community, or less useless team members, or valuable equipment, or any equipment.” 

“Grif… the vampire slayer.” 

“Just because that Whedon feller made the term famous doesn’t mean it’s under copyright,” Sarge said. 

“I think it _is_ under copyright.” 

“Are you going to report me now that you’re a no good blood-sucking _Blue,_ Simmons?” Sarge asked coldly. 

“N-No? I’m loyal to the team, sir! Our team. Your team. The team you’re on.” 

“Red Team!” he shouted. “Because blood is red! And we spill the blood of our enemies and protect the blood of our friends!” 

“Okay. Yeah!” Simmons straightened up. “Go Red Team!” 

Sarge looked mostly satisfied, but his fingers still twitched toward the crossbow on the wall. Grif stepped in front of Simmons with his big arms crossed in front of him. 

Sarge sighed in disappointment. “Fine. Maybe you’ll eat Grif in his sleep for me?” 

“I won’t rule it out, sir. I’ll do my best.” 

Grif shook his head. “Unbelievable. The man wants to kill you and you can’t stop kissing his ass for a second.” 

“The biannual review is coming up!” 

“Simmons thinks that asshole killed Donut too,” Grif said glumly. “He was supposed to make cupcakes for that meeting next week.” 

“Blue Team has stolen my best employee!" Sarge snarled. "This is an outrage!” 

Simmons chose to believe Sarge was still referring to him. “So you both hunt vampires?” 

“Sarge is mostly retired.” 

“Slander!” 

“And I was on sabbatical.” 

“Lazy!” 

“Kai’s been able to keep up with the ferals and over feeders," Grif shrugged. "Most of the born vampires are too careful for us to catch, and keep humans to help them keep under the radar. But there have been a lot of made vampires lately and they’re different. Faster, stronger, and they go feral more often. I’ve been having to help Kai out at night more.” 

Grif looked tired. Simmons used to get pissed at him for napping at his desk, and under his desk, and in alleys on smoking breaks. Was he that lazy because he was up all night hunting vampires? 

Hunting things like what Simmons was now? 

“I’ve never tried to keep a vampire _alive_ before. How often do I have to feed him?” Grif asked Sarge. "Do you have like, care and feeding instructions?” 

“I’m not a _goldfish, Grif_!” 

“No, you’re a pain in the ass.” 

“Asshole,” Simmons muttered. 

“I have never had an alliance with a Blue. I wouldn’t admit it under any torture you could devise.” Sarge looked speculative. “But if I had, I saw the idiot feed once a day. Not a lot. More than a day without eating and they might get ravenous though. And messy. _God, the carnage_!” 

Grif ignored the dramatics, eyeing Simmons. “If you only take as much as tonight we can probably handle it. Until we get a shady black market blood connection or something.” 

"What? This isn’t TV, Grif. I don’t… Do you even know anyone who works at a hospital that could tell us how that works?” 

Grif waved him off. “It can’t be that hard.” 

And then with sudden and vivid clarity he realized Grif was going to have to ' _feed him_.' Every day. Simmons squirmed. 

It was so embarrassing. Grif would have to give him access to his wrist. Or his neck. Be helpless and vulnerable under him... Let Simmons bite into his warm flesh... 

His fangs dropped suddenly. 

Grif rolled his eyes. “Put those away. You just ate.” 

Simmons covered his mouth with his hands, ears burning. 

Sarge looked between them. “Heh. I may be rid of Grif yet.” 

“You wish, asshole. Have you heard anything? About Wash?” 

“Can’t say I have. Other than the minor characters that sister of yours has been destroying, the usual players have been quiet. But word is… Texas is back in town,” Sarge said. 

“Texas?” Simmons piped in, swallowing around his fangs, wondering how to make them go back in. 

“Tex. Church’s scary ex-girlfriend. She fights vampires too, but only when she’s been hired. She’s like a bounty hunter. I don’t know what’s going on with the vampires, man, but Blue Team has been really souped up lately.” 

“Ah, but that woman,” Sarge said, cradling his gun in a way that made Simmons uncomfortable. “Taken out whole nests by herself. A Red if I ever saw one.” 

Grif scoffed. “Except she works alone and dated _Church._ ” 

“Questionable taste in men. She’s not the only one.” Sarge glared at Simmons. 

“Why are you looking at me when you say that?! –And does anyone know anything about Church?” 

Grif waved his hand at Simmons again. "The compulsion Wash put on him made him obsessed with Church. Guy's been missing for a while _and_ dated Tex. He’s gotta be important in all of this.” 

“I should have known _he_ was a Blue,” Sarge muttered. “I’ll see what I can find. Don’t slam the door on your way out.” 

“—Wait, but—” Simmons looked between Sarge and Grif. “That’s it? I thought we were going to see someone to fix me.” 

Grif frowned, looking uncharacteristically serious. 

Before he opened his mouth, Sarge spoke. "There is one cure for vampirism." 

_Oh thank god!_ "What is it?!" 

Sarge raised his gun again. " _A SHOTGUN TO THE FACE!_ Or a stake to the heart. Or a good old fashioned beheading. Or—” 

“Yeah, thanks Sarge. That’s really helpful.” Grif started steering Simmons towards the door. Simmons let himself be pushed. 

“There’s really nothing we can do…?” 

“It’s not so bad, Simmons. You always hated garlic anyway.” 

“I love garlic,” Simmons said mournfully. “I can’t even eat garlic?” 

“I don’t know. I never asked a vampire if they liked garlic on their pasta when I was stabbing them in the chest.” Grif seemed irritated now, which was totally unfair. It’s not like Simmons asked for any of this. Grif was the one who was keeping secrets. Maybe if he’d told Simmons vampires existed he could have done… _Something._

They took the bus towards Grif’s place and Simmons was feeling pretty down now. What did being a vampire even mean? 

Even after Grif was done using him as bait to figure out what the other city vampires were up to, he wouldn’t actually kill him, but… How was Grif going to ‘keep him’ anyway? It didn’t seem like it could work out long term... 

Grif pushed a cart into his hands as they entered a CVS. “The iron supplements and pedialyte are going on your credit card, asshole.” 

Simmons felt so guilty he didn’t say anything when Grif threw gushers and chips in the basket on top of the bandages. 


	6. The Hunger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some might recognize a scene in here from my ["Care and Feeding"](https://a-taller-tale.tumblr.com/post/159474191552/care-and-feeding-supernatural-au-square-for) supernatural AU one shot. That is one of the scenes that kicked off this fic.
> 
> [Grimmmons](https://grimmons.tumblr.com) on tumblr did [this _amazing_ art](https://grimmmons.tumblr.com/post/159664633267/red-ream-entry-for-rvb-bingo-its-the-supernatural). Seriously, it's gorgeous.

When they got back to Grif's apartment, Simmons had a ton of questions for Grif, but Grif couldn’t actually tell him much. He wasn’t exaggerating. They—Both of the Grifs and Sarge— _killed_ vampires. And they’d never _associated_ with one before. 

“Dude, just don’t bite my sister,” Grif said. He sounded serious. 

“I wouldn’t bite your sister!” Simmons protested. 

Grif gave him an offensively doubtful look and threw some popcorn in the microwave. 

They ended up watching Battlestar. It was a good comfort show, and talking about the allegories in season 1 helped keep his mind off the really big unbelievable things that were happening. Around 2am Grif started nodding off. 

Weirdly, Simmons wasn’t tired at all. He still felt like he felt when he…fed… on Grif. Not just awake, but like he drank a red bull or something. 

“Grif?” 

“Mm…?” Grif mumbled without moving a millimeter. 

“You should go to bed.” 

“M’fine. Gotta watch you,” he murmured. 

“You’re watching me with your eyes closed?” Simmons asked doubtfully. 

“Yup.” 

“Okay. You’re going to hurt your back sleeping like that,” Simmons said. 

With an annoyed grunt, Grif shifted so he was lying on the couch with his feet in Simmons’ lap, but his back was better supported, so it was a win. Simmons went back to watching the show with a sigh, slightly comforted by his friend so close. 

It happened around 5:45am when Starbuck was interrogating a captured cylon and Grif was drooling into the arm of the couch. Simmons went from completely alert and aware to _out._

He woke to voices. 

“Wait, so he’s in your _bed?_ If you guys finally had sex, why are you on the couch?” Was that Grif’s sister? 

“Kai, shut up,” Grif hissed. “He’s probably waking up.” 

Simmons went from dozing to fully conscious in three seconds. Unfortunately, he was fully alert to the fact that he was floating three feet above Grif’s bed, tangled in his sheets. He didn’t have time to wonder about how to get down, because as soon as he was aware of it, gravity decided it wanted him back and he fell onto the bed with a crash. “Ow.” 

“Yup, sounds like he’s awake. Did he sleep all day? Good going bro, you really tired him out!” 

Didn’t they know he could hear them? They were both so _loud._ Simmons straightened his shirt and cracked open the door. 

Kai whirled around, wearing a midriff top and the tightest, lowest riding jeans he’d ever seen. Her eyes widened when she saw him. He thought she might make another comment about him sleeping in Grif’s room. Which… how had he ended up there? But instead— 

“When did Simmons become a Blue?” Kai demanded. “Need me to kill him for you, Dex?” 

Her body language was pretty relaxed, she was taking this a lot better than Sarge, but she still pulled a slender wooden stake out of her belt and twirled it like a baton. 

“How did she know? Are my fangs out?!” Simmons asked, his voice cracking. 

Grif sighed. “No, they’re not. Yeah, this is a new development. No, I don’t want you to kill him.” 

“Oh, okay,” Kai said, putting the stake back in her belt. “Wait, _unfair._ You said I couldn’t be a thrall!” 

“I’m not a _thrall,_ ” Grif folded his arms. “I’m just helping the guy out.” 

“Suuuuure. And if I just brought home a vampire boyfriend, you’d be cool with it?” 

Simmons looked between them. Grif was cagey about giving him information, but his sister was a lot more open about stuff. Well, usually sex, but sometimes stuff Grif didn't like to talk about, like their shitty childhood. Maybe she'd be a good source. “What’s a thrall?” 

Grif started. “Kai—” 

"You're not very good at this vampire stuff," Kai said. “You know, a vampire seducing a human with their attraction shit for a regular food supply. Thralls protect their master vampires and usually have a lot of kinky sex. It looks like fun. Such a hypocrite, bro.” 

“I didn’t seduce him!” Simmons said. 

Kai gestured to the bandage on Grif’s neck. “But you bit him, right? So—” 

“Nobody did any of this on purpose,” Grif interrupted through gritted teeth. 

“Yeah yeah, well I got some clubbing to do and some vampires to kill." Kaikaina leaned in and wagged her finger in Simmons' face. "You better not fuck up my brother or I’ll fuck _you_ up, and not in the sex way.” 

“Kai, just _go_ ," Grif said. "And _no_ you’re not allowed to get a vampire boyfriend.” 

“You suck!” 

“No, that’s Simmons,” Grif said. Ha, ha. 

“Oh,” she said slyly. “I didn’t know you’d gotten that far.” 

“Wh- Goddammit Kai!” Grif shoved her out the door and slammed it after her. They could hear her cackling from the hallway. “Ignore her, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” 

“Well if she doesn’t know what she’s talking about, and you definitely don’t know what you’re talking about, and there are no good vampires to ask, is there a wiki on this stuff?” 

“Pft. Good luck finding it with all the RPG crap online,” Grif said. 

"I really slept all day..." Simmons said, looking out the window at the evening sky. "How did I end up in your room?" 

"It was the easiest place to block out the light. I didn't want you to burst into flames and take down the whole apartment building." 

"Will that happen?!" Simmons asked. 

Grif shrugged, turning his game back on. "I dunno." 

"You're so helpful," Simmons said dryly. "Really. I don't know what I'd do if I was alone in this situation." If he completely lost consciousness during daylight hours like that, he couldn't _test_ if he was vulnerable to sunlight or not. "Wait- Did you _carry_ me to your room or something?" 

"You're welcome, asshole." Grif glued his eyes to the TV, taking out enemy soldiers. Simmons did research on Grif’s laptop for a while, something niggling at the back of his throat. He felt sort of like he did yesterday. Groggy and cranky and his throat was tight. It was only a few minutes before he couldn’t concentrate on anything on the screen anymore. 

Grif was annoyingly right. It wasn't even easy to find the folklore anymore, and which folklore was he going for anyway? European? Asian? The mythos from Blade? ...Grif was really distracting. He wasn’t even doing anything, intensely focused on his game. He had a nice jawline. Good veins. 

Simmons wanted to _pounce on him._

Grif sighed and didn’t even look up from the TV to where Simmons was crouched on the other side of the couch. “Would you stop looking at me like that?” 

Simmons was about as far as he could be from Grif without being completely off the couch. He dug his fingers into his knees. “Like what?” 

“Like you want to _eat me,_ ” Grif said. 

“I’m _hungry_ , Grif!” Simmons snapped. He was. He was hungry. Thirsty. Whatever. 

“Then eat. Jeez. Don’t be all pissy and passive aggressive about it.” Grif paused the game and offered Simmons his wrist. Simmons frowned at it, but carefully put the laptop on the table to the side. 

"I thought you said you were hungry," Grif said impatiently. 

"Yeah, but..." With a sigh, Grif pulled the collar of his shirt down, and somehow that was way more interesting. Simmons hesitated, less crazed with hunger than the first time, but he couldn’t look away from that smooth skin. He could almost see the pulse beating under it. 

“What? Do you need an engraved invitation? Come on, before I change my mind, you leech.” Grif didn’t look nervous or even all that interested and that _somehow_ made it less weird. Simmons licked his lips, crawling up closer to Grif on his knees, his movements becoming smoother as his new predator instincts kicked in. 

Grif didn’t tense up at all, but as Simmons moved in, his eyes dilated. He didn't resist when Simmons slid his arm around Grif’s back, cradling his neck, pressing his thumb down into his skin, feeling for the spot the blood flowed strongest. There. That was it. 

Grif’s heartbeat thundered in Simmons’ ears as he touched his lips there briefly, before sliding his fangs in. 

It was better than the first time. Grif was completely relaxed in his arms, and willing, and he tasted so good. Simmons retracted his fangs and sucked. 

Grif was so warm. Simmons felt so cold now, but being with Grif like this, it was like Grif was sharing his warmth with him. 

A soft groan from Grif broke Simmons out of his trance moments later, and he realized he wasn’t really hungry anymore. He’d just been playing with his food, kneading Grif’s side and nuzzling his neck, running his lips over the bite. 

Oh, gross. Grif was going to think he was being weird. He was just trying to eat, it was just getting used to the whole vampire thing. It was a learning curve. He wasn’t trying to be— 

But Grif didn’t seem to mind. When Simmons let him go, Grif let his body completely melt into the couch, breathing shallowly. “You… okay, Grif?” 

“Mmm… Yeah.” Grif replied, eyes half lidded and lips parted. 

Grif stroked up Simmons’ arm, and wrapped around his back, pulling him back in. Simmons’ breath caught in his throat, so surprised he just went with the motion. They were so close Simmons could feel Grif’s breath on his lips, and if his heart was still beating normally he knew it would be pounding right now. 

The look on Grif's face was one Simmons had never seen before, intense and dark and completely focused on him. Like he was the hungry one. Grif looked… kind of turned on. He _felt_ kind of turned on. 

Simmons jerked back, his cheeks and ears burning with the fresh blood. “Uh—um, okay. Glad you’re um, good.” 

Grif blinked, slight confusion rapidly turning to awareness. “Uhh… I’m just gonna…” He sat up and fumbled the controller, turning the game back on. His character immediately died. "Fuck." 

Simmons decided to give him a minute by going in the kitchen, even though he didn’t really need anything in there. “Yeah, uh. Water?” 

“Beer,” Grif grunted, staring at the loading screen. 

The bite didn't look bad. Not as bad as the first time. Simmons had been reading some modern stories that vampire saliva was an anticoagulant, or even had some kind of healing properties. Hah. He had magical spit now. Great... 

He needed to find a good source of info on this stuff. He didn't want to accidentally hurt Grif, and... that thrall thing Kai mentioned. Even though Simmons wasn't trying to do anything, _something_ happened to Grif just then. 

Simmons stood there in the kitchen for a minute, unsure what he really went in there for, before pressing his forehead against the freezer door. The way Grif looked at him… It replayed in his mind over and over. He'd never looked at Simmons that way before. 

Being a vampire was making things awkward. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title for this fic courtesy of Pirate: Awkward vampire and his vampire hunter thrall boyfriend.


	7. Fright Night

After several minutes of giving Grif space, and then an awkward eternity of hovering in the doorway unsure of what he should say and wondering if he should leave, Grif looked up and said “I thought you were getting a beer.” 

Grif drank his beer and gave up on the video game, flipping channels aimlessly and not-looking-at-Simmons. It wasn’t much better. 

“Did you go to work?” Simmons asked. 

“No,” Grif said. 

“ _What?_ Why didn’t you go to work? You’re practically the only employee Sarge has left! What about the business?” 

Grif rolled his eyes. “You didn’t go to work either.” 

“Only because I’ve been cursed to be a creature of the night!” 

“Yeah, I know, and you needed a babysitter. I wasn’t sure if Sarge would try to come by and stake you while you were sleeping.” 

“He wouldn’t,” Simmons said confidently. He was Sarge’s best employee. 

“He would. Don't worry, he only showed up twice before giving up.” That stung, and he couldn’t tell if Grif was fucking with him or not. Sarge _was_ pretty intense last night. 

“You should eat something,” Simmons said finally. “Losing blood can’t be good for you.” 

Grif shrugged one shoulder and put some chips in his mouth pointedly, without looking up. The flavor on the bag was prominently displayed. “Are those _garlic chips?_ ” 

“Huh,” Grif said with an unconvincing surprised tone to his voice. “So they are.” 

“But doesn’t garlic hurt vampires?” 

“Then stay the hell away from my chips.” 

“Did you really go out and buy garlic chips just to fuck with me? What if you ate them and I drank your blood and got sick?” They really didn’t know anything about his condition and what was and wasn’t true, right? Anything could hurt him. 

“Guess we’ll find out,” Grif said. 

Simmons couldn’t help snapping at that. “Why are you being such an asshole?” 

Grif tossed the remote and crossed his arms. “Blade was my favorite superhero when I was a kid.” 

“Uhhhh… Okay, was that movie on tv or something?” 

“I’m saying, those were my favorite movies. I started training to kill vampires when I was six. They're all evil fucks. They kill people. I never thought I’d ever _let_ one of them feed on me.” 

“I get it,” Simmons said. It hurt, but yeah, that made sense. 

“I don’t think you do get it. I’ve been killing vampires my whole life. A vampire killed my mom for fuck’s sake.” 

It was like being struck by lightning. “What? You always said she ran off to join the circus— _Oh,_ that was a lie.” A really obvious one, but the Grif siblings had such good poker faces. And it was more believable than their mom getting killed by a vampire. At least it was until last night. 

Simmons picked at a stray thread on his pants. If he didn’t have any clothes here from the last time he stayed over, he’d have to borrow something of Grif’s before he stopped at home. 

“I’m sorry about your mom,” he said finally. “I’m sorry I turned into one of them, but it’s not like I did it on purpose.” 

“I know that,” Grif said wearily. 

“None of this is my fault. Would it be better if I had just died?” 

“No,” Grif said intensely, eyes snapping up to meet Simmons’. “No. And don’t ever fucking say that.” 

“Then what am I supposed to do? I don’t know what I’m doing.” Simmons rubbed his forehead. “I know I could hurt you. I could have killed you at the bar if you hadn’t stopped me.” 

Oh god, what if he had? What if he had gone into a trance and just woken up with Grif lifeless in his arms. His throat tightened. Fuck. 

“Simmons, you need to calm down.” 

“You and Sarge said there’s no cure. And that vampires go feral?” His voice was getting higher and his chest was tight. Was he breathing? Right, he needed to start checking for that when he wasn’t panicking. “Why _are_ you feeding me? I could kill you any second. And I think I broke the door on the fridge earlier!” 

“You—Wait, what?” 

There was a hum in his rib cage like something was fluttering and building and his hair prickled out from his scalp as the world narrowed and darkened at the edges. 

Grif actually stood up from the couch like he was going to help him, before his eyes widened in panic and horror. 

The skin on his body tightened and constricted. The world dilated. _Oh god, what's happening?_ Simmons tried to cry out, but it came out as a weak little squeak. 

Grif screamed, throwing himself behind the couch and making it a barricade between himself and Simmons. 

The way Grif was acting was freaking him out _more._ Grif never panicked like this. Grif wasn’t really afraid of anything except— 

Grif had always been deathly afraid of bats. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Pirate's fault for sending me amazing fruit bat pictures. 
> 
> [boyslushie](https://boyslushie.tumblr.com) on tumblr made [a comic](https://boyslushie.tumblr.com/post/164807911611/i-got-really-carried-away-with-this-oops-anyways) based on the scene in chapter 3 that totally blew me away.


	8. Bats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art of [Simmons turning into a bat](http://captainkonot.tumblr.com/post/166130126113/commission-for-a-taller-tale-of-a-scene-from) by the talented [captainkonot](http://captainkonot.tumblr.com/). I love how the characters came out and all the details. 
> 
> **Disclaimer** : I am not a bat expert. I did some research on various fruit bats, and the Egyptian fruit bat is about the right size, but then I just made stuff up. He's a vampire. Magic, etc. That being said, links to my favorite bat videos and gifs can be found [here](https://a-taller-tale.tumblr.com/tagged/bats).

Grif wouldn’t stop screaming. It sounded off moving through the air, and somehow Simmons could feel it against his skin. 

It was so weird to see Grif freaking out like this. He never freaked out, except that one time he dropped in unannounced when Simmons was watching a nature documentary about bats. At first Simmons thought he was being overdramatic and exaggerating, but Simmons had to turn it off and assure him there weren’t any bats in the apartment, and he hadn’t seen any at dusk in the city repeatedly, even though he totally had. The bat population was really up this year. 

Reassurances weren’t going to work right now. Grif had to calm down enough to tell Simmons what was happening. Grif yelling was terrifying and it was _so loud._

Simmons tried to say so, but it came out in a series of squeaks and clicks, and that was enough to distract him from his previous panic to go through a whole different kind of panic. 

Simmons was somehow tangled up in his clothes and it took a lot of flailing and a herculean struggle to get free. He sniffed triumphantly, but then he caught sight of his hands and started shrieking himself. ‘Oh god, my hands! _Help me!_ ’ 

The more he squeaked, the louder things seemed to get. Was he really a fucking bat?! If Grif knew this was a possibility and didn’t tell him, _he was going to kill that fucker._ Maybe he wouldn’t have to, if Grif gave himself a heart attack. 

And what the hell? Grif wasn’t scared of _vampires_ or Simmons _eating him_. He _killed vampires_ and he was scared of a flying rodent? Well, Simmons was currently a flying rodent that could turn into a bloodthirsty vampire, but priorities. 

Simmons had no idea how to move his new limbs. Some of his joints moved the wrong way from what he was used to, so it was only five seconds of attempting to crawl before he was plummeting from an impossible height. 

The floor was a lot farther away that it had been and the hardwood was a rough landing for his tiny body. A hurt noise escaped him when his face took the brunt of the fall. He was lying painfully on one of his arms, the skin pulling tight when he attempted to get up, fluttering helplessly. One of his new wings was trapped underneath him. 

How was he going to undo this? How did this even happen? Was it his body's response to panic? Simmons was a pretty cool guy, he’d gotten employee of the month once, but if it was linked to him panicking he was going to have to get used to being a bat. And how the hell would he turn himself back, because he was definitely panicking now! 

“J-jeezus,” Grif said. “You’re going to hurt yourself. Stop moving like that.” Grif peeked out from behind the couch, watching Simmons try to orient himself. Holy shit, he was _huge._

‘You could _help me._ ’ he muttered resentfully, but it came out as a pathetic sad noise, which made Grif straighten up more from his hiding place. Was he actually going to help? 

Something landed next to him with a thump. A sock? 

Was Grif _throwing_ shit at him now? That _fuck!_

_‘Help me!’_ he tried to say, but it came out as another shriek. 

“Ahhh!” Grif twitched and almost leapt back to his hiding place. “Stop doing that!” 

‘What, _moving_? Fuck _off_ , Grif.’ At least the rage allowed Simmons the motivation to flip over onto his belly. He was panting and shivering. Could vampires get concussions? Was he a living bat or a supernatural bat? And how well did they deal with head injuries? 

“Okay, calm down,” Grif said, and it sounded like he was talking to himself more than Simmons. 

Simmons just wanted to curl up until things stopped _happening._

That was when everything went black. At first Simmons shrieked again, but the soft weight on him wasn’t too heavy, and it was… fabric? At the same time, he picked up on the strong scent of Grif enveloping him and instinctively relaxed. Not that he smelled particularly good or particularly bad. It was just Grif and his scent was… comforting. Like coming home. 

The calm didn’t last long. Whatever Grif had thrown on top of him was twisted around him with shaking arms, trapping his wings in tight to his body. 

Simmons grunted in protest, trying to decide if this was a comfortable position to be in. Was Grif going to throw him out the window or something? He could deal with the vampire thing, fine, but being a bat was the deal breaker?? 

His hysterical thoughts were interrupted by the tight grip shifting and Simmons was blinking at Grif in the sudden light, still trapped in the makeshift swaddle. Grif twitched when he squawked and tried to move. “No, no more of that flapping bullshit, okay? It’s freaky,” he said firmly. 

Hand twitching away briefly when Simmons blinked at him, Grif hesitantly rested one finger against Simmons’ cheek, like Simmons might suddenly decide to take his finger off. 

“You’re not so bad if I can’t see your wings. Yeah…” Grif was really trying despite his phobia. Apparently, Simmons not taking his finger off right away was encouraging because Grif tilted his hand until he was lightly scratching around Simmons’ ears. 

_Ohhhhhhhh, that feels good…_ Simmons blinked up at Grif slowly, moving his head into Grif’s hand, his ears twitching. 

“Yeah, just like a large mouse or… a weird looking cat, yeah. You’re just a cat.” Grif continued muttering nonsense to himself and Simmons chirped affirmatively. He was calming down a little just listening to Grif’s voice, burying his nose in whatever he was wrapped in, snuffling, and Grif was so comfortable and warm. 

Something like a purr started up in his chest and he closed his eyes, enjoying being cuddled and pet despite himself… 

Some eternity later, Grif made an urgent strangled noise in his throat. Simmons ignored him, pushing his head into Grif’s hand to pet him more. Jeez, Simmons had been about to fall asleep, wasn’t Grif over his lifetime paralyzing fear of bats yet? 

Simmons blinked drowsily to see Grif almost nose to nose with him, and looking his normal size to Simmons’ eyes. Grif’s hand was in his hair, digging gloriously into his scalp, but frozen. 

Simmons was human again. 

He was draped over Grif’s lap completely fucking naked aside from Grif’s favorite old hoodie twisted around his torso. 

The purring noise Simmons was still making came to an abrupt halt. 


	9. From Dusk til Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for hanging with me while I was on hiatus. Big thanks to Pirate again for helping me with a plot snag.
> 
> There are some emails in this chapter in italics. Let me know if it's confusing. I apologize that I have no fancy formatting tricks. I googled half-heartedly and then decided the Director didn't deserve fancy email formatting anyway.

Simmons went from warm euphoria to mortified in record time _but he couldn't move_ , frozen in this humiliating moment.

Grif’s mouth was open and he wasn’t making a big secret of looking at Simmons. Which, if Simmons was in his right mind, he might think was understandable. They were close, but neither of them had been _naked_ together before. 

The worst part was that Grif was so comfortable, and Simmons could still sense his scent all over his skin. It felt like he belonged there, that Grif belonged with him. The sense of possession was so strong, it was freaking him out. 

Grif let his hair go, and the spell of both of them staring dopily at each other was broken. Simmons fell off of Grif’s lap and back on the floor, grabbing the sweatshirt to cover his junk when it slid off. 

He fumbled and made to grab his clothes from the floor, unsure of how to cover his ass for his hasty retreat, but it was taking too long with every passing second, so he just decided quicker was better and the front was more important and booked it back to Grif’s room to throw his clothes on. 

Grif didn’t say anything to him, still looking shell shocked. Maybe he was still stuck on Simmons turning into his worst fear. 

Unfortunately, once the door was safely shut behind him, Simmons realized he’d only grabbed his pants and Grif’s hoodie. He put his pants on, but he’d rather walk across hot coals than go back out there shirtless. 

Or out there at all. He really didn’t want to go back out there at all. If he went out there, Grif would definitely be out there. And the idea of seeing Grif again right now... Talking... The anxiety was at a simmer now, but what if he turned into a bat again? 

And right before the bat thing, Grif had been trying to tell him he hated vampires. A vampire actually _killed his mother._ What was Grif _doing??_ What was Simmons doing? 

Grif had been trying to say he couldn’t do this anymore. Okay. So, rather than having that conversation ever again, there was one solution. 

Go out the window. 

He grabbed one of Grif’s clean t-shirts and stubbornly pulled the hoodie on over it, refusing to feel weird about it. He already felt cold. 

Simmons had never had a problem with heights, but the fire escape was really wobbly and definitely not up to code. He made it down to the ground without too much trouble, wondering if there was any way he could fly or something, but not curious or brave enough to try it yet. 

There. Now Grif didn’t have to kick him out or feel obligated to “baby sit.” Simmons was a grown man! -Vampire. He could figure this shit out. Thankfully his pants had his wallet and phone in them. 

He took the bus back to his apartment, feeling less like a bad-ass creature of the night and more like a dejected loser. Getting in his own clothes and on his computer would help. And it was still early in the evening, but he had to make sure the place was secure for whatever daylight did, since apparently he was going to black out every sunrise. 

He pulled out his keys and thought about Donut’s empty silent room. No late night pop music, crazy strobe lights, no accidentally walking in on one of his bubble baths. His roommate really wasn’t coming home… 

Which reminded him of another scary and dangerous problem: Wash. 

—It was _fine_. Simmons was smart enough to figure something out. He could _handle this._

He barely took a step into his apartment before he was blown backwards and crashed back into the hallway so hard he was coughing from the impact. 

_“GODDAMMIT.”_ This vampire bullshit had him locked out of his own apartment. Donut was dead and couldn’t invite him in. Would it work if Grif came over and— 

No. No more Grif. He could handle this. Maybe vampires weren’t barred from public buildings. He could go to work, catch up on some things, rig up Grif’s napping closet for daylight hours. Then… Then just figure things out. Easy. He had a plan now. 

Simmons slumped against the wall and pulled out his phone. A piece of paper, folded, fell out of his pocket with it. 

The email Simmons got off of Church’s desk. It felt like years ago. 

He unfolded it to read. On closer inspection, it was part of a forwarded chain from “UNKNOWN SENDER.” Director Leonard Church hadn’t sent it to Church directly, but he was one of the parties in it. 

\- 

_Subject: FWD: A memo to the Chairman of the Oversight Sub-Committee from the Director of Project Freelancer._

\- 

Project Freelancer. Wash was a freelancer with them at BGC… But that had to be a weird coincidence. Obviously this “project” was something else. 

\- 

_Dear Chairman,_

_I write today in response to your Committee's request for more information about our program and the suspected incident with 17-B._

_While we cannot say for certain, I share your concern that we have an unfortunate post-project scenario taking place. However, I take exception to your assertion that we were warned that this was a possibility. I would like to remind the Sub-Committee members that anything is possible. Some things are probable, and this is what it is. My agency, as it always has, will continue to deal with what is...until it is no more._

\- 

_Dear Director,_

_Your program was granted the use of a single specimen for implantation experiments. Yet, the department records clearly show multiple agents in the field with enhancements during the same time frames. Would not that verify, as we indicated earlier, that your program now runs experiments with more than one primary specimen? If so, where did these additional specimens come from? And more importantly, how did your agency procure them? Surely this must be a logging error, and we anticipate a corrected document soon._

_Due to your busy schedule, we have begun interviewing members of your staff. I'm certain you will let us know if this bothers you. Our debriefings keep coming back to a single subject: 17-B. Can you explain to us what this Meta is, and what your plans are to deal with it?_

\- 

_Dear Chairman,_

_Our records in this matter are impeccable, and I will refer you to them. It is true that we were granted the use of only one specimen, yet with special permission to conduct our experiments. That is all we were allowed to do and that is all we have done. Of course, I am sure that you will agree that the core mission of any scientific endeavor is to find creative solutions to unexpected problems like the Meta._

_While I appreciate your concern, allow me to correct you in one area. I value all our subjects' well being. But I revere above all else our ability to continue as a species - our ability to survive. And no committee, no bureaucrat, will ever convince me otherwise._

\- 

_Dear Director,_

_Do your "creative solutions" include the circumvention of the safety protocols that every member of the military must follow? If they do not, then I fail to see how an enemy has managed to secure not one, but several of your experimental specimens. The protocol is not a guideline, dear Director. It is doctrine, and no one is above its rule._

_Our laws are not designed to outline every possible infraction that may take place. However, the spirit of the law is clear: Blatant disregard for the safety and well-being of our citizens, in any form, will always be a punishable offense. Regardless of how well, or by whom that offense has been justified._

\- 

_PFL._ A company he had never heard of. _Project Freelancer. Director Leonard Church._

The email wasn’t marked up at all. Church had printed it out and left it on top of his desk. It had to have been an accident. This looked like it was internal correspondence. And the things it said… Human experimentation? For the _military?_

The date of the emails was around the time Church had disappeared. Maybe he’d left… or been taken… before he had a chance to file it somewhere safe. 

Tucker had been really worried about Church just being gone before all the crazy stuff started happening and Simmons and Grif had both brushed him off. Even when Church’s family blocked Tucker filing a police report. They just thought he was in rehab or something. From the way Church talked about his father, he seemed like the type that would want to avoid a scandal. Simmons knew about dads like that. 

Simmons felt a little guilty. He'd worked with Church for five years. He was the worst human resources manager ever, but he made sure there was always coffee at least. He’d seemed like the type of guy that might drink too much. He definitely wasn’t the type to get involved in some kind of weird conspiracy. 

But now, after everything that had happened... With Wash so intense on finding him that he’d kill Donut. Make Simmons a vampire… He _had_ to find out what happened to Church. 

There might be more on Church’s computer. His program would be done and allow Simmons’ access now. 

He grabbed his keys and drove back to work. 


	10. Let the Right One In

Before Grif had come to work at BGC, it hadn’t been uncommon for Simmons to stay at work until after dark. Simmons was ambitious… and honestly he didn’t have anything pressing to do after work anyway. He’d been doing it less since he had friends now, but this was the first time he’d come _into_ the office after dark. He’d have to get used to that… Maybe he could talk to Sarge about changing his schedule. 

The parking lot was mostly empty. There was an insurance company on the 5 th floor. The BGC was on 7. It wasn’t a very big or fancy building and the offices could use a new paint job honestly. It was built in the 1970s and still looked like it. Simmons swiped his badge and the door unlocked for him. 

He thought about taking the elevator, but then decided to experiment with super speed. It took a while to get the hang of it. He had to consciously push his body past the old limits he had for himself, and there was no Sarge with a shotgun to motivate him, but soon he was _practically flying_ up the stairs, bangs flying back off his face, and it was kind of _fun._

Until he hit the seventh floor and stopped himself too quickly, smacking his face into a wall. At least no one saw that. 

Simmons badged himself into the office and turned on the lights, bee lining for Church’s computer. He pulled out a drawer to look for a notebook and paper to take notes on anything he found, and right there in the drawer on a sticky note was Church's fucking username and password. 

It was a little frustrating after Simmons had been so proud of cracking into his computer. Didn’t Church care about company security?! Come on! Anyone could just go through his drawers and get the company secrets. 

Simmons logged in. There wasn’t much in the content of his emails. There wasn’t even anything he could recover deleted or otherwise from Director Leonard Church. So his lead led to nothing. And he was locked out of his own apartment. And he was the worst vampire in the history of the world. And Grif hated vampires and bats. 

Simmons trudged back down to the parking lot empty handed. It was pretty empty; even the latest office stragglers had taken off by now. The flood lights were bright, but left contrasting dark shadowy areas. Weren’t there crickets making noise earlier around there? Because now it was eerily silent, except for the fluttering of wings somewhere. 

_You can’t get creeped out at night anymore, Dick. You’re a creature of darkness. You are the_ night _._

“[What are you doing here]?” 

Simmons did not shriek. It was a very manly yell. 

“[It’s just me, calm down idiot].” 

“ _Lopez?_ What’re you doing here? Are you—Are you here for a job interview?” Simmons hadn’t expected to feel so betrayed. He didn’t even particularly like Lopez. 

“[I _should_ leave all of you, and then you’d have no one left who knew how to fix the equipment. I should ask why you’re here].” Lopez pulled a security key card out for the door. A blank faced young woman who looked slightly familiar was on the ID, but what caught Simmon's eye was the logo on the ID. 

PFL. _Project Freelancer._

Holy shit. _It was here._

Simmons’ Spanish was a little rusty, but he liked to think he was able to guess what Lopez was saying when he had to. They’d been working together for five years. You get on an almost psychic level with people in that time, even if you never got past level 2 of Spanish in Duolingo. “You uh… going to PFL? Me too. I was coming to uh… see someone.” 

Lopez rolled his eyes. Simmons followed him back to the door he just exited. Once inside, they went to an elevator Simmons had always assumed was for deliveries only, because it was a different color than the others and tucked to the side. 

He didn’t even know if he needed to be invited into a corporate office or a lab he didn’t work at. Some people “lived” at work. Also, how long did someone have to reside somewhere before it counted? Like if you moved in a few days before the last tenant’s lease was up, would you be able to invite a vampire in? Or would the previous renter? He hadn’t been thrown across a room yet, but… “Uhhhhhh, would you be able to invite me in?” 

Lopez shrugged and swiped the ID card of the woman who worked at PFL and was definitely not Lopez. The kiosk beeped, the lock unclicked, and the elevator doors opened. 

It was a freight elevator. Lopez pressed four floor numbers in a password sequence, looking for all the world like this wasn’t weird. Well, Lopez was a weird guy. They went down a dozen floors and the doors opened to a white and shining lobby. 

Unlike the ID card, there was no branding, no logos, and a very bored looking dude in what looked like SWAT armor drinking coffee at a large nondescript desk. He didn’t look up from his tablet when Lopez came in and didn’t comment on the extra guest, though Simmons could tell by the way his eyes narrowed slightly that his presence was noted. 

Now that Simmons was inside, he… really didn’t know what he was looking for. So he just followed Lopez. Lopez rolled his eyes when he noticed, but didn’t act like he cared either way. He seemed to know where he was going. It all looked the same to Simmons. Labrynthine, like a hospital, or a lab. 

It was a lab, according to the directory sign at their next crossing. The sign had arrows pointing to **Alpha Labs 1-6** in one direction, and the other direction were **Exam Rooms 9-10** , and **Holding and Containment**. 

Of course, they were walking toward “Holding and Containment.” Nothing seemed amiss as they passed the exam rooms. The doors were open and the lights off, labeled with their numbers. They just looked like doctor’s offices, but the thought took him aback. Wasn’t this a lab? Why would they need medical equipment? 

He thought about the emails he’d just read. _Human experimentation._

The holding rooms they walked past were even less disconcerting, but alarm bells were going off in Simmons’ head. Each one was about 10 feet by 10 feet, with one cot and what might have been a commode. Nothing else was inside, but each was brightly lit and had an observation window that took up the entire wall they walked past. 

These were numbered too, but also named with letters of the Greek alphabet. Omega, Sigma, Eta/Iota… 

There was one room in the long procession that had some personal things in it, though it was as empty of its occupant as the others. Crayons strewn around. Action figures, and papers taped to the walls. Children’s drawings. 

Simmons shuddered. 

Lopez seemed completely unruffled and single minded, even when they passed the _Alpha_ cell. It was obvious something had happened to the large glass pane, though no glass remained and the hole was taped off neatly with a large sheet of plastic like it would be patched up soon. 

This facility was empty now, but it was obvious it _had_ been housing something… Or several somethings… 

_At last._

Simmons shrugged off another chill. 

The lighting wasn’t ominous enough for this. It was a blindingly well-lit and shining interior, like it was just a fancier office than BGC, but it _was_ extremely quiet. 

Well, it had to be late by now. He pulled out his phone to check the time and nearly dropped it when a familiar voice from an office across from them said, “I doubt you’re authorized to be down here.” 

It was a young woman he now recognized, when he hadn’t from the tiny ID card photo. He’d met her a couple of times through Church at the rare group get-together. Sheila was the sort of intense person that freaked him out, and she had a weirdly morbid sense of humor. Simmons had usually tried to avoid her. 

But she worked for PFL? This was perfect! She was friends with Church. Simmons couldn’t believe his luck. 

“[Sheila],” Lopez’s normally inscrutable features softened in a smile, and the almost mechanical way he moved relaxed in her presence. 

“Lopez,” she said warmly, kissing him on the cheek. 

Simmons was momentarily distracted by a pang of jealousy. Was that what relationships were supposed to be like? People making you feel relaxed being near them? Talking to girls had never been anything but nerve wracking for him. 

“Oh, hello Simmons,” she said formally. 

Simmons flushed and stuttered, “H-hi.” 

“How odd. To what do I owe the visit? I was just finishing up my work for the night.” Unlike everyone else here being apathetic, her tone was flat, but she was very focused on him. It was hard to read. Though Simmons often craved being the center of attention, he also hated it. Especially from people who already made him uncomfortable. 

“Uh… I didn’t realize all this was down here, and I thought maybe… do you guys give tours?” 

There was something about the way she was looking at him. Some kind of wariness he could sense that he wouldn’t have been able to pick up before. Predator instinct. 

Lopez spoke next, diffusing the tension, “[Simmons works upstairs. He just followed me in.]” 

“I don’t give tours, Simmons, but I’m sure I can bring it up at the next staff meeting.” 

Simmons couldn’t tell if she was joking. She was saving something at her terminal to a USB drive. Packing her things in a measured way. She was tense. 

“Church,” burst out of him involuntarily. “You work here. His father works here. He’s missing. Is he here?” 

“You’re looking for Church,” she said stiffly. 

Lopez looked between them quizzically, obviously picking up her tone too. 

“Lopez, you’re going to walk me to my car now,” Sheila said, dropping all pretext of friendliness. “Excuse me,” she said to Simmons. 

_She knows what happened to Church. I have to know what happened to Church._

Before Simmons realized he was moving, and went into “speedy mode” fully, Sheila pulled Lopez away from Simmons and against her and hit a button that slid the door shut between them. 

“Wait!” Simmons shouted. 

Sheila was running, pulling a confused Lopez behind her. Shit! 

It took him 30 seconds to figure out how to open the door. Then another half a minute of pinging around the hallways trying to find the way back to where he and Lopez came in. 

The guard who had been at the desk when they came in wasn’t at his post. Sheila was pressing the elevator buttons trying futilely to get it to come faster, while Lopez asked her quick questions in low tones, his hand on her shoulder. 

“Sheila!” Simmons shouted. “I’m not going to hurt you! I just have to know what’s going on!” 

Sheila whipped around, eyes blazing, and stepped protectively in front of Lopez, _pulling out a fucking gun._

“Holy fuck! I just want to talk!” Simmons put his hands up. Sure, he was a vampire, but who knew what kinda damage a gun would do to him? He hadn’t had a chance to test if he had super healing, and he didn’t really want to. 

“I don’t want to kill you, Simmons," she said. "Just let us leave.” The elevator softly dinged as it came back down to their floor. Simmons had zero doubt she’d do it. 

“[Holy shit],” Lopez looked as freaked out as Simmons felt. “[Sheila, put the gun away].” 

“Lopez, you don’t know what you brought in here,“ she said without moving a millimeter, steady and deadly as a tank. Simmons’ enhanced eyes took in her squeezing the trigger in slow motion. Simmons shut his eyes tight, so he didn’t have to see it coming. 

The elevator dinged. 

“[Sheila]!” A shot rang out. 

The pain didn’t come. “Thanks for getting us in, Simmons.” 

Simmons’ eyes snapped open. 

Wash and Meta were standing in the elevator, the armored man dead and crumpled at their feet. His gun was in Wash’s hand, recently fired. 

Lopez choked, standing between Sheila and the bullet’s trajectory. 

Simmons could smell the blood now, as a dark stain spread rapidly across Lopez's shirt. 


	11. Daybreakers

Simmons threw himself forward to try to catch Lopez as he collapsed, forgetting about the two out of three people with guns pointed around the room.

He'd also forgotten that Lopez was bleeding, and that that was a _thing_ for Simmons now. His fangs slid out of his gums as the sweet smell of fresh blood permeated the air. If Simmons hadn’t fed on Grif earlier, he probably wouldn’t be able to resist the pull of it. 

Sheila turned the gun on Simmons, then rapidly back towards Wash and Meta. Obviously the scary killers in the elevator with the _body_ were the bigger threat, but Simmons _was_ all fanged up.

She knew what he was, what _they_ were.

Sheila’s arms didn’t shake, but she was outnumbered, and her tone became even. “Lopez needs medical attention. He doesn't work her. He’s not a part of this. Let him upstairs so he can get help and I’ll cooperate with your demands. I’ll give you everything.” 

Wash scoffed. “You’ll give us all your access anyway. You were so loyal to the project, Dr. Filss. Complicit in making us what we are. How about we give you the choice?” Wash smiled cruelly. “Do you want him to be like us?” 

“Stay away from him,” Sheila aimed the gun back at his face. Wash didn't look threatened. 

Lopez was going heavy and limp, his eyes rolling back in his head. He probably didn’t hear a thing they were saying. 

Simmons was shaking, tears filling his eyes involuntarily. Somehow Simmons had led Wash and Meta here. Lopez was fucking dead. First Donut, and now— 

“Tie her up, we need her security access,” Wash said. It took Simmons a second to realize Wash was talking to _him_. Oh god, he was involved in _another_ murder. And they were making him _participate_ in this one. 

“With what,” Simmons snapped resentfully. 

“ _Go find something_ ,” Wash said through gritted teeth, his tone irritated, but the order zapped something in Simmons’ brain and he dropped Lopez. Simmons was free to go find some rope or cords or just _something._

He vaguely heard Wash say, “Meta, restrain her til he gets back.” Simmons speed walked and then ran down the hallways he came from as soon as he was sure he was out of sight. 

He felt like he _needed_ to do what Wash said, but he’d said _‘Go find something.’_ Simmons was going to find an escape route out of this science fiction hell dungeon. 

It was five minutes before Simmons had to admit to himself that he was lost, and there might not _be_ another exit from the sketchy human experiments lab, aside from the freight elevator they'd come down in. He’d been gone long enough that Wash was probably going to find something else to tie Sheila up with and then come to kick Simmons’ ass. ~~Or kill him.~~

His phone had no signal, but he checked it every couple of feet anyway, desperate for a life line. He was pulling it out to look again, when he heard someone _whistling_ from a few doors down the hall. 

Someone else was here! They’d know the way out. This place had to have a fire exit or something. Just because something was secret didn’t mean it couldn’t be fire code compliant. 

Unfortunately, the guy whistling in one of the labs wasn’t a burly security guard or a vampire hunter who could save them. He was a night janitor taking classes part-time to become a medical assistant. He told Simmons all of this before Simmons could take a breath and scream at him that they needed to escape. 

“I’m Frank DuFresne, but everyone around here just calls me ‘Doc.’ I really didn’t think it would stick, but here we are!” 

The hairs on the back of Simmons’ neck were standing up again. Time was up. It felt like Wash was moving closer. “Yeah, that’s great. Help me move this table.” Maybe if they barricaded the door Wash would give up on him? 

“Uh… I’m not sure you should be moving the furniture.” The guy leaned on his mop with a slightly concerned, but friendly smile. His tone was gentle, like he was talking to a skittish wild animal that he was happy had stopped by his cottage in the woods. 

Simmons ignored him and continued attempting to move the table on his own. 

“Plus, it’s bolted to the floor unless you have some tools,” Doc said helpfully after watching him try for thirty seconds. 

_“Great!”_ Simmons barked, trying not to completely panic. No use turning into a bat right now. It was way too disorienting, and he was underground. 

“Ooooookay, well, I’m gonna go ahead and call security now.” 

“ _What?_ Why didn’t you call security when I came in?! I’m not supposed to be here!” Simmons grabbed Doc by his shoulders a little too roughly. “Do it! Call security!” Hopefully there was more security in the building than that one dead guy. “Actually, call 911!” 

“Simmons, drop him,” Wash said from the doorway. Fuck! 

Simmons instantly released Doc, who stumbled away from them, rubbing his shoulder. “Ow, that wasn’t very friendly,” Doc said. “Maybe we all need a nice session with Human Resources.” 

“You work here?” Wash demanded. Simmons’ breathing got a little easier just from having his attention on someone else. 

Doc frowned. “I’m not sure _you_ belong here. You look a little unstable. Is that ketchup on your shirt?” 

“It’s _blood_ ,” Simmons couldn’t stop from agonizing aloud, wondering if they’d ripped Lopez and his girlfriend to pieces after he ran off like a coward, or if they were already full from that security guard. 

“Oh,” Doc nodded knowingly. “I used to get terrible nosebleeds all the time as a kid. My secret? Trident gum. Works every time.” 

Wash ignored the advice after a deep frustrated sigh. Yeah, despite his fear Simmons couldn’t help noticing Doc was the most obnoxious guy he had ever met next to Donut. But when a guy was your roommate for so long, you got used to it. Plus, Donut was dead, so it was best to think better thoughts about him. 

“I need access to all the records here,” Wash said. “All the experiments, results, patients, and where the surviving assets are being stored.” 

“I don’t normally just give out confidential information to people who obviously have anger management issues,” Doc said testily. “I can get HR on the phone right now and we can all hash this out and find some healthier outlets than demanding favors from strangers in the middle of the night—” 

Wash cut him off. “Simmons, pick him up.” 

The command buzzed through him and Simmons shoved Doc up against the wall, two feet off the ground, brandishing his fangs and hissing. 

Doc’s eyes went wide. “Okay, okay! I might know where someone keeps a sticky note with the passwords.” 

“You can drop him,” Wash said flatly. 

Simmons dropped him, the unnatural anger draining out of him. “Doc I- I’m sorry—” 

Doc didn’t acknowledge him this time, scurrying to the nearest terminal and rummaging through a drawer full of office supplies and tangled chargers. Why the hell was everyone writing down their passwords and keeping them in their desks! Didn’t they care about security? 

Apparently not, because Doc was able to log in easily. He could be lying about being the part-time janitor, but honestly Simmons suspected Doc was just so nosy he knew everyone’s secrets. Another thing that reminded him of his dead friend Donut. 

“Simmons, review all the records and footage. Find Church,” Wash ordered Simmons, then turned cold eyes on Doc. “You, come with me.” 

Simmons dropped into the desk chair at the terminal, every cell in his being becoming focused on the new goal. When they left, Doc chattering away nervously, Simmons was already rapidly clicking through folders. 

If this wasn’t such a high stress situation, being in a new database was always a little fun. PFL was _so much_ more organized than BGC. Simmons sent his coworkers the file titling guidelines once a month and he was _still_ fixing everyone’s shit regularly. He found a document that Sarge had named “3” once and almost had a stroke. 

Honestly, if these PFL guys didn’t seem like Bond villain level bad guys too, Simmons might submit a resume. He really admired a good filing system. 

Simmons went straight for the folders named for the Greek alphabet, just like the empty cells Simmons and Lopez had walked past earlier. In each subfolder were the names of US States. 

Okay, he was liking this organization less now. Why not name other secret project stuff after Greek mythological figures and keep to the theme? Or use state birds instead of the Greek alphabet at all? Pick a theme and stick to it. 

Each state was a code name for a person. Then there were experiment statistics. Date of injection. Amount. Chemical makeup of the sample and how it was altered. Things Simmons found interesting but wouldn’t be able to fully comprehend without a doctorate in bio. 

Searching an employee directory for Church might be easier, but there were a _lot_ of password protected and redacted files in this area. Thinking of that cell with the broken glass, he had a feeling he was on the right track here. 

PFL was some kind of super soldier program. Cliché. 

Dr. Sheila Filss had written and signed off on most of the logs, going back years. She referred to the Director constantly, addressing her reports to him. The early experiments didn’t yield very noteworthy results. Some arguable enhancement of strength or eyesight in the subject, but something changed in the last two years. They’d figured something out, and weird shit was beginning to happen. 

Sheila didn’t write it down exactly that way, but he could see it in the brevity of the notes stating that Agent Maine’s temperament had changed after exposure to the Sigma specimen. He had been calm and professional before exposure, but now he complained of constant migraines during the day, and he was prone to violent explosive outbursts. Other times he sat in the dark in the corner of his quarters, saying nothing. His most dramatic result was his already formidable strength increasing to an inhuman level. 

The last document under Sigma and Maine’s file was called “17-B - Incident Report.” It was heavily redacted, but Maine and the Sigma specimen had been terminated from the project. 

He found the agent’s profile and picture last, and the face of _Meta_ stared back at him. Eyes dull and dark and serious. Neck without the jagged awful scar. He looked like a bored normal guy, who was very buff, but you couldn’t tell he was seven feet tall from the photo. 

PFL scaled back a little after “17-B.” The Delta files were harmless at first. Agent New York had lost sight in one eye due to an accident, and infusion of the Delta specimen sped the healing. The Director gave the order to expose him again. The rest of the Delta files were locked. 

Some time after Simmons had compulsively gone through all the Delta files and moved on to Omega, he must have fallen asleep. 

_“Stay awake.”_

Simmons crashed to the floor at the sound of Wash’s voice, snapping to sudden painful awareness. Time had passed. His eyes burned so much they _hurt._ He wanted to sleep so bad. 

“Fledglings,” Wash sneered. “Stay awake, and come find me when you’ve finished all the files or found a lead on Church.” 

It was past dawn, and he was awake. Simmons’ teeth chattered. 

Simmons dragged his sorry ass up and went back to the terminal. Wash stalked off to do whatever he was doing. He seemed as warmed over by the hour as Simmons felt at least. He hoped Doc was still alive and annoying the shit out of him. Asshole deserved it. 

The next test subject was North Dakota. The profile was of a friendly looking ex-soldier. Mid 30s. Impressive sniper record. Exposed to Theta sample. 

So many of the files in each folder were protected, but this one had a video file that wasn’t locked. ‘Theta_Sire Testing_ND_Attempt 42’ 

North Dakota looked different than his picture in the dark footage. He’d lost weight, and his eyes were sunken in his face, his skin an unhealthy color. 

Simmons could guess after hours and hours--and what he and Wash and Meta all were--what the “specimens” the Agents were being exposed to might be, but it was still shocking to see the change in North. Grif had told Simmons he looked like shit the other day, but he didn’t look like that. Right? 

A child entered the frame of the video. There were kids here? Simmons wasn’t good at telling kid’s ages, but the kid was young. Elementary or middle schooler. Simmons thought of the cell with the crayon drawings and toys in it. 

He looked healthier than North, though just as pale, with dark hair that curled on his forehead. It just looked more natural on him, like he’d been born with hollowed cheeks. Then the boy turned his towards the camera, Simmons could see he wasn’t normal. His eyes were large and violet and glowing like a cat’s when they catch light in the dark. 

An intercom clicked on and a slow Southern drawl came over the intercom. _“Begin, Theta.”_

Theta. The specimens were _people?_

Theta looked at North for confirmation before doing anything. North nodded encouragingly. Theta may not have looked like a normal child, but he sounded even younger than he looked when he swallowed and mumbled, _“Okay.”_

The glow of his eyes intensified as he spoke. _“North, jump.”_

North jumped as soon as the order left Theta’s mouth. A simple hop up in the air with both feet. 

_“Agent,”_ the voice on the intercom snapped. _“Do try a little harder to resist. Theta, again.”_

_“Jump,”_ Theta said. 

This time it was almost three seconds before North jumped. Higher, as if to make up for the hesitation. 

Every time the boy told him to, North jumped. He jumped over, and over, and over again. 

It took something out of him to delay obeying Theta for even seconds. There was visible strain on North’s face, and a slight sheen to his skin. His best time was seven seconds before North jumped, the action jerky and involuntary, like a dead frog that had been shocked with electricity. His legs weren’t ready for it. There was an audible crack when he landed, and he crumpled to the ground with a gasp of pain. 

_“North!”_ The creepy glow of Theta’s eyes dimmed as he ran to North. 

_“I’m fine,”_ North assured him in a voice that didn’t sound fine. 

_“Theta! Back to your place,”_ the man on the intercom demanded. _“Start the exercise again.”_

Simmons ended the clip before it was over. It wasn’t Church anyway. 

The corners of Simmons’ eyes burned, from the daylight outside that he could feel even underground, or the lack of sleep, or the horror in the back of his throat. 

Simmons looked at his phone. Of course he had a signal now. Now, when he knew anyone he called for help would just add to the kill count. 

He had a text too. It was Grif. _'Where’d you go?'_

God, he wished Grif was here. He’d know what to do, or at least he’d suggest some escape plan so unbelievably stupid, it would highlight the far simpler and more obvious thing Simmons had been unable to see for himself until Grif suggested something so dumb. 

Something about Grif was just _steady._ Even when the world was turning inside out, Grif would be there ready to eat his pizza bites and watch trashy TV until the nightmare was over. 

If they’d been watching this shit together, Grif would have been cracking stupid jokes the whole time. 

The file was called sire testing. North was exposed to the Theta sample. Theta said jump and North jumped. 

Wash’s blood was the specimen Simmons had been exposed to. Wash was his sire. 

Wash ordered him to threaten someone, and he did it. Wash could order him to fetch shit, to find Church, to stay awake. He could order him to hurt himself. 

To hurt someone else. 

A chill passed over him. 

_'Everything’s fine,'_ Simmons typed out. Then he slipped the phone back in his pocket and went to the next file. 


	12. The Vampire's Assistant

Grif blinked up at the ceiling. His skin was crawling, and his heart was beating hard, the sheets twisted tightly all the way around his leg. 

It felt way too early. He never woke up this early without six different alarms, and occasionally Simmons calling him to make sure he was moving. He groped for his phone to check the time, since his windows were still blocked up from Simmons staying with him— 

That’s what was wrong. Simmons was gone. 

They’d set him up to be bait for Wash and the new vampires, and then Simmons just went and fucked off. After he, ugh- turned into a bat. Grif shuddered, his phone lighting up the room as he checked the time. There was a text from Simmons. 

_‘Everything’s fine.’_

Okay… Vague. Maybe he was being weird about the naked thing. 

Grif grimaced. That had been a roller coaster ride of emotions. 

He rolled out of bed and threw on clothes from the clean pile—he’d probably only worn them once and he hadn’t sweat through, so they were clean enough. At least he felt a little bit of relief hearing Kai snoring through her bedroom door. She’d come home some time after he went to bed. Had been on the hunt, but hadn’t needed backup. 

‘Everything’s fine,’ the text said. 

Okay, so why did Grif still feel like he was about to have a panic attack? 

Grif skipped his coffee. 

\- 

When Grif got to work, he went straight to his napping closet to check if Simmons had been there, half expecting to see his idiotic floating creepy corpse, but Grif’s blanket nest was undisturbed. 

He went to Sarge’s office next. “You didn’t kill him, did you?” 

“Lopez!” Sarge yelled out of his office. “Didn’t I tell you not to let this dirtbag back in my office? Lopez! Goddammit, he hasn’t answered to a single yell this morning.” Sarge froze, then his eyes focused on Grif, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Wait a goshdarn minute… It’s 9am.” 

Grif crossed his arms. “Isn’t that when work starts, sir?” 

“Exactly! What kind of unnatural influence is Simmons having over you?!” 

Grif tapped his fingers agitatedly. “He’s gone. He left last night.” 

“You lost track of the evil creature of the night you insisted on keeping as a pet?! Damn it, Grif!” 

“He texted me that everything was fine.” 

Sarge paused. “...Those exact words?” 

“Yeah, what’s that matter? That’s a normal text— for Simmons anyway.” 

“Everything is not fine,” Sarge grunted. "He's been captured." 

"What?! How do you get that from 'everything's fine'?" But the rock that had been in the pit of his stomach all morning got heavier. 

“You said he left. He’s not at his apartment. Donut can’t let him in, being he’s dead, and Simmons is an unnatural undead abomination now. He couldn’t get in by himself.” 

Shit, Grif should have thought of that. Where else would Simmons have gone? 

“Simmons doesn’t have any other friends—” Sarge continued. 

Cruel, but accurate. 

“—So he would have gone back to you after discovering he couldn’t get into his apartment, or to me, to get a stake through his heart, and my trusty stake Mr. Pointy is sadly dry of fresh vampire dust. He’s been taken by the enemy.” 

Grif stared at the message again, going cold. Sarge plucked the phone from him. 

“Mhm,” he grunted. “Good news, dirtbag. If Simmons has been captured, we got ourselves a lead.” 

\- 

Simmons had a lead. Alpha. 

Considering what a mess the cell marked “Alpha” was with the taped up window, he probably should have visited this folder earlier, but with so many iterations of the project in Greek letters, he’d been trying to go in reverse order. It would make logical sense that Alpha was first chronologically, and therefore probably the shittiest and least promising experiment. 

But considering the multiple naming systems and disorder of the project, he should have known that logic was out the window here. At least Simmons was right about this being the oldest project. 

The clips available were short and out of order and some of the files were corrupted or broken because they were so old. The first one he found that worked showed a little boy, perched on a bed in a cell, his arms crossed tensely and a scowl on his little face. 

At first, Simmons thought the kid was Theta again, but the time didn’t match up for him. The date in white block letters in the lower right of the screen like old VHS surveillance used to have showed that this footage was from over twenty years ago. 

_“Leonard, it’s time for your medication._ ” The Southern drawl was familiar, but instead of speaking over an intercom, the man stepped into the camera view. 

On closer look, the boy resembled Theta, but his face was thinner, and his eyes didn’t have that inhuman quality to them. They were red rimmed and puffy and he sniffed up hard. “ _Dad, I don’t want-_ “ 

“ _Stop being childish. I’m trying to make you better._ ” The man flicked the needle in his hand. _“You think your mother wouldn’t have taken a few needles if it meant living? This is for your own good.”_

Simmons couldn’t see the man’s face, but the way Leonard flinched, Simmons knew exactly what kind of look his “dad” had given him. He took Leonard’s arm, felt the muscle, and quickly administered the shot. Leonard’s lower lip trembled, and he bit it to make it stop. 

“ _Formula 211, strain 3, administered 7/4/97 at 1830,_ ” the man said for the camera. 

It wasn’t a minute before the boy went into convulsions. 

Chills crawled up Simmons’ spine as orderlies rushed onto the scene to tie the little boy down in soft restraints so he wouldn’t hurt himself as the man took impassive verbal observational notes. 

Leonard. It was _Church._ Church was the Alpha project. 

This wasn’t rehab. Tucker was right. He’d be fucking insufferable when he found out it actually _was_ some kind of conspiracy. Tucker, who had been out sick since last week. So… he’d be smug and insufferable if Tucker wasn’t missing or dead too at this point. 

“So he was at this facility before me…” Wash muttered, and Simmons almost died again. He was sneakier than a fucking cat! “But did he come back..?” 

Wash pushed Simmons’s chair so that it rolled a foot out of the way, and took over the terminal. Simmons couldn’t suppress his angry squawk after he had been working all night and into the day. 

Wash quickly went through some more surveillance, cross referencing it with unlocked case notes. 

“Was that really his father?” 

“That was the Director, and yes, he was experimenting on his own son,” Wash replied, more agreeably than Simmons had been expecting. He must get tired of talking to Meta, who wasn’t super vocal other than killing people and growling. “If I’d known that before I signed up, it might have given me a hint at his ethics.” 

And Simmons thought his relationship with his dad was fucked up. “Why aren’t we looking for the Director then? Why do you want Church?” Wash laughed bitterly, and Simmons tried not to roll his eyes, because this was supervillain monologueing 101, but the guy _had_ killed two people in front of him. 

“You still don’t get it? The Director was trying to be a modern Dr. Frankenstein. Gain power over life and death. He discovered vampires were real and made his own kid into a monster.” 

“ _Church_ is a vampire too?!” 

Wash stopped looking at the terminal and faced Simmons. “Of course he’s a vampire. Didn't you ever wonder why Church never went outside during the day, and slept at odd hours, and wouldn't enter other people's homes? You didn’t notice anything weird about him?” 

“I thought he was just an asshole,” Simmons admitted. And Church worked during the day. He drank coffee by the pot and looked perpetually hungover. He was pale and hollow-eyed, but they worked in an office, so that was normal. 

“I don’t know what the original goal was, but Church didn’t exhibit the strength and speed and other supernatural abilities the Director was looking for. He was deemed a failed experiment. Being the Director’s son, he was let go to live a ‘normal’ life while variants of his blood were used to continue the project with an aim at a military contract. It was a few years before the first candidates started self-destructing.” 

That sounded… not good. “Self-destructing?” 

“Hallucinations, sudden violence, insatiable hunger, insanity… The Director was fucking with something he didn’t know the rules for. We’re the unnatural among the supernatural. All the other subjects have gone feral. Meta and I are all that’s left, and as you can see, our sanity isn’t what it used to be.” 

Yeah, no kidding. “How does finding Church help?” 

“Church was the first. He was still stable, so his blood is the key to stabilizing all of us. He was _‘recovered’_ by PFL weeks ago. But Charon Industries would kill to get him, who knows what other entities. They all want him. He’s the key.” Wash grit his teeth, his forehead wrinkling as he was locked out of another log. “The Director’s gone into hiding, this facility’s all but shut down... Church was _here._ But where is he now?” 

Wash clicked another video. This one was recent. Church was easily recognizable this time, agitatedly pacing the inside of his… well, it was a prison cell. He tripped over a tray table, knocking food and drink all over the floor. Seeing what he’d done, he kicked it again, swearing. 

There was suddenly another crash, glass shattering, the noise almost drowning out Church screaming _“What the fuck?!”_

The camera view shuddered and crashed, swinging back and forth at a diagonal. They heard “ _Not my fault! <\em>“ before the swaying camera gave up and cut off the footage, presumably snapping and crashing to the ground. _

__

“Oh, it was… him,” Wash sighed. “I’ll have to call some old contacts to see where he is. It won’t be hard. This one… leaves a trail.” 

__

“Is he like you?” Simmons asked, meaning ‘you’ as in the vampires, but for some reason, Wash tensed up, scowling. 

__

“No, we’re not alike. At all.” 

__

“Okay,” Simmons agreed. 

__

“Not even a little. And never say that again. He’s…” Wash pinched between his eyebrows. “It’ll be fine.” 

__

Simmons stood up, faking a yawn and a stretch. “Great. You have your lead, and it’s been a really long day- night- yeah. So I think I just might be going now.” 

__

Simmons half turned and Meta was taking up the entire doorway. _Fuck._ How could someone that gigantic make _no noise_ when sneaking up on someone?! 

__

“Nice try,” Wash said. “I shouldn’t have to compel you to do everything in your power to find Church now that you know.” 

__

Simmons knew a lot of things now. “Know…?” 

__

“You’ve had my blood. You’re a time bomb. Ticking down until you go insane and try to slaughter everyone you’ve ever loved," Wash said, mocking but weary. "Welcome to Project Freelancer.” 

__

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [You suck: Let the red one in](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11637594) by [CC_Writes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CC_Writes/pseuds/CC_Writes)




End file.
